Bleak though it seems
like a nightmare we just can’t shake
every morning it’s still there when we wake:
a presence like heavy wooden doors shut so tight
no crack lets in the light.
Avarice advancing like a plague,
Its logic is a racket of arrhythmic drums.
Among the complicit, wrongs compounded bring silence.
Among the aggressors, invasions of liberties invite cheers.
The doors are bolted heavily across the span.
Bleak though it seems
from inside a darkened chamber
we who love know there is a beautiful world beyond this.
Since together we have knowledge, strength, and leverage,
we lift the bolt and swing it away.
Bright beams of light, almost blinding, give way to clearer vision
to see again the world we knew,
still green, and blue, and ours, and true.
Look to the sky and see the arc of the moral universe which is long, but bends toward justice
plain as day.
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