Maybe one day

there will be a home

for this torn poet,

with a paper vault

to deposit dreams,

and a willing pen

to stitch the seams

​

My feet have grown

so very weary

with steps that were

so very laden

by the anger of all injustice

and its pain of flooded tears;

storms in the open darkness

hiding all of the world’s fears.

 

If no abode

is to be had,

at least my heart

will remain light

with the smell of a thousand flowers

and the breeze of a thousand sunsets

the warmth of a thousand smiles

and a thousand starry nights

having pierced my sleepless eyes.