In a Dark Time … The Eye Begins to See

The recent discusssions of anger at Burningbird and Pagecount inspired me to dig out an old Langston Hughes’ poem: What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy [...]