There Is a Chance in Every Moment

There is a new tomorrow

arriving piece by piece,

waiting to be assembled

by careful, compassionate hands.

It sits in warehouses

of future construction

until someone decides

the need is great enough to put it all together,

and we are the assembly line,

and time is the foreman,

reality is the delivery system.

There is a push so great,

from a source

that makes the universe seem microscopic

most will have no choice

but to fall.

Only those with deeply reaching roots

could even hope

to withstand the torrent of wisdom

bringing down skyscrapers like flames on a wick.

Mountains will move,

but the rooted will stand,

ready to embrace a better way

as justice burns barriers into the ground.

There is a new tomorrow

that you won’t read about in papers,

or see on television.

The networks want it censored

out of self-preservation.

Still invasive,

a glimpse can be caught

from all around

with the right way to look.

Can’t think outside of the box,

until the box is found and broken down,

cut open by the refusal to go along with this

charade

any longer,

burned by the fire behind the eyes

of a vision that pierces through the atoms

as the realization hits

that we are more energy than matter,

more soul than body,

more transitive than these four dimensions allow,

or seem to.

There is a structure

behind every event and circumstance,

every setting

and every moment,

that cannot be fully fathomed.

So complex, it can only be a simplicity

like a flood that cannot be contained

by a mere collection of thoughts

scribbled in margins.

They are fools who think

they can explain what they haven’t seen made,

and haven’t even met the architect.

There is a longing

daily replaced by shadows and shells,

empty things that hold no meaning

beyond the surface,

and so the tower builds on gaps

and not on solid parts.

Oh how it longs to come down,

it tires of holding itself up

in pure determination.

Only our dreams can set us free,

if only we could no longer sleep.

There is a journey

packed in saddlebags on the back of time,

the steadfast steed.

Plodding at various speeds,

unconcerned who can keep pace

across deserts lined with billboards

advertising non-existence,

products of futile design.

The destination is unknown,

yet the course is plotted

in unfurling itinerary spools of thread

holding each moment together

so that nothing is disconnected.

cut the strand that holds you in

and you will fall,

eventually realizing

there is no bottom rushing up to meet you,

no end, and no acceleration,

no escape

from terminal velocity flames

in such a kamikaze eternity.