The Newspaper

Crinkling paper, grey and bold-

writer's envy, of he or she's position there;

Could there be a time, 

when my ink-doused hands forge the Newspaper-

Could there be a time, 

when wise old owls unfold my words at dawn-

Over the high-goals like mountains, 

there is a taller dream-

but til' then, 

could there be a time

when the words of the world come from the mind of mine?