May 20, 2016


There is no way to predict upon which lands we will build our shelters,

or which waters will fill our wells and bathe our babes.


Try as we might to rearrange the stars or meddle with our tea leaves,

all we serve is to bring laughter to the lips of Fate,

and the planets continue their orbits.


No matter how neat and tidy our calendars,

and how well-penned our budgets,

They will be burned within the fires that warm future nights,

and blow as ashes into the atmosphere. 


We can lay our bricks and dream up our dreams, 

and still nothing we try to make certain is guaranteed to be.


For we can till our land and dirty our hands 

and still not force forth from the earth 

that which she does not yield willingly.


At least not for very long.


We certainly can chase upon the heels 

the exasperated future that just does not want to be.

We can set upon the hunt 

to trap the partners and unborn children never meant for us.


We can live lives we steal,

and sleep in beds never meant for o...

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