In memory of Maya Angelou
Looking out mother's window, I imagine a day without hope. Immediately the brightness that qualifies life is darkened. My shoulders sag low into the valley of desolation. My fingers crumple under the weariness of aimless toils. My train of thought sputters the congested cough of an ailing man ready to crossover into an equally hopeless plane of hopelessness.
Above me, aspirations tumble from the sky were wishes once came true.
