Stream of consciousness

As I start off this poem, I have no idea where it is going- The only thing that I can say for certain is that wherever we end up- And that may be very far away from where we begin- It will be an interesting journey as to how we get there. Why is it when I sit here staring at the screen, Waiting for my canvas to dry in front of the fire, The strangest thoughts start to run through my mind? For starters, I am wondering when this mess in this world is going to end, And somehow I think Its only going to get worse before it gets any better- Even a little bit. So sitting and wondering what sort of world it is that my children- When and if I ever have them- Will inherit, there are a few questions that drift on by. Who are they going to be able to trust? What are they going to be able to make of this tangle? When are they going to start to untangle it? Where are they going to be able to refuge? Why are things getting so out of control? How are they going to fare? Its odd to think of bringing in the next generation And even stranger to think that our dreaming, idealistic generation Has had no effect on this what so ever Other than to fight for it on the government’s demand. I sit and stare at the words coming out onto the page Ever so often glancing over to see if the acrylics are drying as fast as scene paints do And now I notice the fire is out. I have to go and stoke it- Bring it to life. The wood is too damp and won’t light fast enough And I think I singed my fingers ever so slightly. Speaking of my fingers- they are turning dark- It has to be the ash from loading the fire. I am the little Aschenputtel- the little cinder girl. The canvas is dry- off to paint it a little more- Attempting to make it pretty, All for someone else.