The membranes of my daydreams
are sliced into many worlds.
I long to unleash their dimensions.
The promise of utopian living
to invoke an idyll spell
at least for another first world poem.
But suffering and tribulations
are found in the universal
truth of things.
There’s a stark depth to our world.
I can write spring but it
still comes out as winter.
I’d like to articulate a carefree
dialogue, but the latest atrocity
played out on CNN worries my brain.
I open my eyes to the truth
and those other dimensions disappear.
There’s no rearranging the clouds.
The wind will still come
rushing through the trees.
The rain relentless.
Still we somehow rise against
Knowing there’s still time to distinguish
between the pellets pinging
against the roof and the air.
We must become a meteorologist
of compassion, benefactors
of the unseen light
while there still time
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