Why?

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

Even pierced

by our cement daggers

the pulse of its might

beats us inner and breathless

gifting dreams to us all:

the righteous, the wicked...

You will never know darkness

oh, shadowless ones

not even a glimpse of sadness

from you all misery hides

My sandals are not fit

to thread your golden trail...