if my words cannot change the world
then hope has fallen into awaiting hell
if this ink cannot turn cold hearts
and create life in the dead places
why write anything at all anymore
were these phrases and stanzas
ever water falling in the desert
or has it all just been a dream
of a fiction only imagined
but could never be grasped
because when i reach
there is nothing to take hold of

i thought i was making the sun rise
and sending the pale moon
to sail silver across our living skies
but now i have begun to wonder
if these things happen on their own
and i am a child playing at pantomime
before a theatre of empty chairs
a boy seeking to create joy
but spreading only pain
a sandstorm rising from a dry heart

but perhaps tomorrow,
the rosy light that grows
along the eastern horizon
as twilight gives way to dawn,
perhaps that will be my doing