Writing is, no, was, or will be in any case,
Thursday noon water that washes the sleep off my face.
Writing would, or could, but won't in any case,
Rain food upon Somalia, or make this a better place.

But something about writing unchains my mind,
Leaves all those now drying dreams further behind,
Than two hoots for world hunger, and new hope for the blind,
And feeds it instead on all the life it can find.

To chew on that life and live for its taste,
And lay all its non-verbal faculties to waste,
Till the feast is over and that inner world is replaced,
At the centre of my life by the reality it outraced.