Poets have no dreams

Poets have no dreams
They die before their words prevail
No verses could sing their praise
Be it ever suffice

Pilots have no dreams
They crave only the sky
What consist of no edge
Can never be broken

I have no city
As no city has me
One step away
From that city inside me

The Ecology of Hope

Some spared life gave birth to the ootheca

That yield hatchlings translucent and pure,

What seems colorless jams then thrive at scraps and odds. 

Meeting days' ends, meeting each other never again. 

Scrabbling on their journeys to the end of catacomb,

Spreading here and there, spreading down to a handful. 

Cherished less by even fewer,

Cling by resilient existence, refuse to be forgotten,

Lurking in the corner of the darkest, 

Holding its breath for another breath, 

for light, for another day to thrive. 

Waiting for the day, ere too late,

Someone spot it, recognize it

As the weathered hope someone once hold.