I dream of a world I helped to make beautiful.
Instead of planting trees, I planted souls
square in the hearts of people who thought
their chests to be barren, infertile landscapes.
I dream of a world I helped to make loving.
Where others stop on the street to help one another.
Where friends and enemies exchange pleasantries,
regardless of their hostile feelings, those feelings melt.
I dream of a world I helped to make forgiving.
A world where people let each other’s flaws and histories go.
A land where apologies were accepted at face value
and no one held grudges.
I dream of a world I helped to make more empathetic
because sympathy is cheap and makes another feel ashamed,
and empathy is understanding at worst, relating at best.
No one would feel judged or ashamed of their story.
I dream of a world where my words leave a legacy larger than my own.
Where my novels and poems and short stories fill the heads of strangers
and make them feel less alone and more understood.
Where my words are enough to comfort those who feel lost.