I’ve seen these fleeting glimpses of the world.
They dissolve — memories of dream soon lost,
and leave me longing to see raw, rich truths —
the craving lies — a deep itch in the mind.
The ghost of cosmos future threatens me.
It shows me worlds with all the wrongs righted,
and asks if I’d push a button of change,
and feel my suffering grow in exchange.
And would I walk a road paved in torment,
if the tormented souls were thus made free?
I know not whether I’ve such heroic bones
to take that change and pay the entry fee.
Is virtue stuff from which heavens are made,
or is it yet another kind of dream.