Let the Dreams of Dew Not Die

In the depravity of the neglected wasteland obscure tufts of subdued slender grass struggle to rise through the cleavage of stony destiny, the frail faces shaping the artifacts of cruel fate, flicker with the fading smile of residual innocence, borrowed from the remains of the sun, already sunk in the depth of yonder horizon dark. In the harsh squall of servitude, uprooted, they stray to nowhere, uncared and soiled. Under the blue freedom of the open sky dew drops no longer bejewel the juvenile grass, tarnished by the dirt of our spiteful times, the dreams of their dew dry premature. In the twilight hours walking the last few miles, I wish to give the last rays of my twilight sun to the relics of dewdrops so they can glow awhile. I wish to drip the last drop of empathy from my oasis, so their innocent smile doesn’t desiccate in desert. I wish to show the children of a lesser God the dreams of dew that would never die. April 12, 2020