A poem about dreams.

Misery and impoverishment are meant to be constant, in spite of medical and scientific gains. There is a tendency on the part of leaders to promise spectacular turnarounds, or at least, mitigate problems for which their predecessors found no solution, many of whom have either failed to deliver or, in fact, have caused more problems that somehow overlap the other. It seems life was never intended to equalize circumstances, such as those of wealth and poverty, comfort and inconvenience, ill-health and salubrity.

On blood.

Where do you think the Mona Lisa came from? Or the Sistine Chapel and it’s beautiful paintings? Or even the wonderful everyday things we use?