Beneath the glory moon of evening,
the guest, absent from her bed, is exposed
walking near the silent stream
pondering memories, lost loves
wanting to write the world right:
but where to begin;
how to be heard above the din
of the commercial ego;
wanting to warn about the future
but where to begin;
when those in power listen only to themselves
and do not see the possibility
of the ultimate umbrella mushroom.
