I feel so guilty, thinking, dreaming,
weaving thought to word and rhyme.
It somehow felt like I were stealing -
stealing futures all the time.

Your words describe familiar notions,
notions I have sought and found.
And while my river keeps on running,
yours is dry, left only ground.

Lighting struck you, left you burning -
Your world came slowly to a halt.
While my world just keeps on turning,
and all you lost is not your fault.

But sometimes even ground left barren
will come to  flourish after rain.
Food for thought will grow, though slowly
from that last and single grain.