send a messiah,
a handsome blue-eyed hero,
a wise-worded miracle maker
with vulnerabilities
that run off our backs like water,
forgotten at the hand of the next writer;
divinity who patiently sews together
an everyman's problems,
asking for no pay but a loyal follower;
one to rid the country and a world
of hungry mites and dust
pushed under presidents' persian rugs,
unafraid to do what's right
in spite of wealthy condemnations;
superman or jesus will do.
i),
Once upon a time our stories were simple.
Once upon a time our mothers turned the pages for us, held our hands, and promised to read out the words we still stumbled over, sometimes, if we were tired or alone.
Once upon a time we were taught to walk only so we could begin that ancient human race: the desperate sprint for success, power and fame. The one where your mother lets go of your hand and tells all her friends that you can do it without falling sometimes, if they pretend they aren't watching or they shake a rattle at you; the one where coach says the people sitting at the side-lines are only kids who can't run fast enough, who di