What hope is there that he, a thoughtless man,
May ever come to the light of day shone
Out in the darkening night? A fair tan
May he have over the side, and a tone
That is bronze, for he's allied with a race
That's made clear and evident in his face.
But what can he hope to accomplish here
Within the sight of those who are now near?
What place has a feeler, of spiritual
Tricks, have in a place with intellect's might?
Yet perhaps it's the union of the shoal
And the shore that created the sand heights;
For though we be different we be sure,
I think what will be, you think of who were.
Appalling Fire (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012
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