what good is inventing a world

you cannot reach beyond your mind?

what good is love

when never realised,

your heart held

by a phantom grip?

where is the point in doing good

in a world where all efforts

are quickly swept away

by violent daily tides?

how can we, so helpless,

unable to raise arms in protest,

possibly move the earth

or entreat the sky?

where do we go when we die,

if not to your heaven or my hell?

what are the silent, sightless

things that move us,

thoughts and memories and regrets?

why are we given no roads,

no compass, no words

of kindness, encouragement, advice?

helpless, helpless, helpless,

surface-dwelling, shameful,

needy and insolent children.

we starve, we think of ourselves,

we die quietly in the dust.

hapless thieves of thunder,

disdain on our tongues,

we shudder at nightfall.

TMK 22.7.2007