Questions From a Balcony

Creation is unstable, a question in the dark What am I supposed to say? With hands that lack talent With a mind with too many possibilities; Stop. Think. I can't- choose. We can't see what we believe, Creating the world into a gruesome scene from Grimm's fairytales Barrels of nails.. Rolling down a hill of lies. But of knowledge, gaining some presence for myself I can choose. Now. Again. Later. Destruction is an inevitable piece of news Preparation incomplete, unsure wariness dragging me under Can't you hear the rolling thunder? Feel the earth shift Feel the heat bloom beneathe your feet as your exhale turns white The world's challenges changed to unbearable hot coals But I can face this. This, this I can handle. Creation is no longer a question A light, a brightness illuminated by a predictable end Taken by hands that we control Depressed imaginations But with talent to rock the world to its foundations.