Some Tuesdays in this country.
A leaf falls waving,
trailing, where rain
parts a day,
A new soul is
born, it begins
a thought: stolen hope
from a wicked witch
a bystander’s friction and betrayal.
Where these fractured roads split,
is where the wheres run towards.
The sun spills, into the new dimension.
We, the oppressed
hold a knife to our hearts
against we, the oppressors.
The America of tomorrow is a fiction.
Change and hope are just words.
The ground has shifted.
The cynics have had their say,
while spirits too frail were taken in
and housed by the specter of the past.
Now, with joy
comes candor and diligent debate,
colorless and insistent,
storied and statistical,
and meaning is kissed into words again.
The leaf falls to the ground.
Nothing is different.
The things that change can never be seen.
They are believed,
made with weary hands,
and they are listened to,
On a day like today.
What you've said