Hopeful Chronicles

In a perfect world,
We would have no use
For paper or ink,
And stories would be related
By the voices of those
Who had come far,
But were not yet finished,
Because as long as
They breathe,
Their journey is not complete.

Perhaps poems
Would be written in sand
To be washed away
By the tides,
Each new stanza
As perfect as the last,
Simply because it is.

Legends would be
Chiseled into stone,
The sweat of labor
And the dust of ages
Standing tribute to
The accomplishments
Of human nature
And the fancies of the mind.

Children would learn
Their letters by
Fire and tree bark
Beneath the haze
Of a yellow moon.

An equalizer would be
At last found among the people
Who have looked so long
And found nothing but war.

And words would heal wounds
And the quest for knowledge
would overcome the difference
In gender, race and beliefs
Becuase who in this world
Does not enjoy a poem?

Wouldn’t this reprieve
The current dissention
Rising in a scarlet tide
Around the world
In which we reside?