Again with Thought

Thought is a thief
that steals away the seconds,
whole moments snatched
from becoming anything, rendered
inarticulate questions
that never get answered.
And all I do sometimes
is think think think, when there are
so many stories in me
I want to tell, so many
contraptions I want to build,
so many conversations
that never get started —
all there is is the imagining,
protoforms that no one else
understands (myself barely
if at all). I conceive revolutions,
if you must know,
like any self-respecting artist….
I can only foresee,
if my dreams somehow come true,
that far in the future
someone will hear about
all my sacrifices, and then,
hear about what I made happen
in this world of ours —
and they will not nod, and say
that it was all worth it,
but merely tilt their head,
offering no judgment at all,
only sympathy, sympathy.