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
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