We have journeyed on broken bridges and hovered through flaming caves,
On crumbling bricks and through hollows of hell and hades.
Our past pricks and the fear of a futile future hurts our heart.
Our hourglass of hope counts down in our river of sobs
and our faith falls, for it is tough to put our trust in thumbs.
These thumbprints and card slips have become our Halloween,
our periodical party of masks and pumpkins.
Every thumb on paper event is a checkpoint of putrid pains and regrets;
Every wait for a change breathes a factory of sighs,
but if we hold the garments of hope once again
would our thumbs rewrite the stolen stars and light up the darkened sky?
Like paper planes on karma airlines, our progress planes keep crashing back.
Polly polls through two purple parties panic our prayers of change,
but hope will drive our wheels of faith once again.
Yes, hope will drive our wheels of faith once again.
But tell me the truth,
can these thumbs rewrite the stolen stars and take our pains away?
The dinner of turning-tables is at hand.
Democrats will mount the pulpit and read their scriptures.
The beauty of the dawn would await the moulding of our palms,
but with these black cards laying on our treasured tile.
Tell me the truth,
can these thumbs rewrite the stolen stars and heal the bleeding Nile?
Our thumbs are weary of printing torrid textures on paper,
but our choices emaciate and our options opt out.
So whisper it into the stream of silence and let our souls part.
“Can these thumbs rewrite the stolen stars and paint us a perfect art?”