The ground rose, colliding
with the emotions of my steps,
railroading me through stations
of thought.
Like drums beating a steady cadence
of emotions, suggesting a direction
for desire.
Goals evaporated without explanation.
Private thoughts hide in the alleys
where dreams live long enough to take
a few breaths.
There’s fire in the creative hands
possessing a pen.
Nothing is considered too small
to make it big.
The ground rose, colliding
with the emotions of my steps,
railroading me through stations
of thought.
Like drums beating a steady cadence
of emotions, suggesting a direction
for desire.
Goals evaporated without explanation.
Private thoughts hide in the alleys
where dreams live long enough to take
a few breaths.
There’s fire in the creative hands
possessing a pen.
Nothing is considered too small
to make it big.
Roger Singer 