Argument

Hollow points are made through screaming,
true gold is made through dreaming.

The scene is this, school,
academia, college, whatever it might be,
rain on some spring night, rain on some spring night,
and people, late night, some old classroom.
The debate, argument, its there,
always there for us to muse over.
Like a legend, or myth, with a sliver of skin,
a sliver of reality.
The scene is this, congress, old men fighting over
old rules for old problems from old times.
They scream and rant, find flaws without
acknowledging their own.
A media studio somewhere, flashy with abstract
colors and decorations swirling beneath a camera lens
where distant well-groomed people yell in flashes,
and soundbites are substituted
for logic and reality.
Then the social gather,
drinks, fishing trip, birthday anything,
more, more of the rhetoric only slightly hotter,
heated, a fine point spear.
Did a titan melt the stars with anything else, but a dream?
Did he scream and rant to suns and sparks?
No rhetoric for the titan, no clamor for it either,
only hammering on wings of spinning cloud and light
in wild patterns against a poor lit and sprawling black.
More hammering, more hammering, more hammering,
not speaking, but hammering, acting.

Hollow points are made through screaming,
true gold is made through dreaming.