The Oracle has her work cut out for her, to create a little optimism.
A better place
Who are these people who want?
To be, to have something different?
Refugees from themselves, ship-searching,
looking for an ocean of their own creation.
There is bitterness in this dawn
that drips with cold mist,
the kind that rots and rusts
even the brightest things.
They tell me there’s an entity
up there in the sky or down in the cool earth,
a mother watching, guiding.
I think I feel her presence, a mother screaming.
Perhaps the sun rises for this,
to end these mad dreams,
to dry up the mists that hide what’s really there,
the fallen trees, the orange decomposition of leaves cars.
Only when the storm dies
do we hear the sea whisper, of blue and better times,
a place where the only pounding is the surf,
and spring is soft rain and apple blossom.