Hot nights trickle across time breathlessly,
especially when people isolate
and put themselves on islands, hopelessly
putting their faith in dreams that can’t create:
This is the divide: between vision and
decision, between sight and mind or skill;
One hand: a barren field of rock and sand;
The other hand: the sea and an oil spill:
I guess that’s the catch: we make to unmake,
though the scope of the matter slides away,
out of our hand and it burns in our wake,
razing our earth with a byzantine spray:
We are diabolical creators;
Half-man, half-light, we are sadist satyrs.
urbansonnets 
Did you mean hopelessly*?
I did. Thanks! (Unfortunately, editing messes up the layout! Oh well…)