Sometimes
I dream that a mighty hand
will thrust through the sky,
pulling apart the clouds
and letting in a light-
a light not of this world,
a light unfelt in ages.
If such
a light exists- a beam
beyond the blood splattered sky
and brighter than the dying sun,
then why hasn’t it shone before?
Why does gloom make its home
in the air, and why hasn’t the hand
batted away the smoke?
Sometimes
I dream that I am that hand,
titanic and teeming with the prayers
of a thousand weak and strong.
But are my fingers sharp enough
to rip apart what has been sewed?
I dream that there is a larger light,
but I fear that I’m too small.
Stellular Scribe 