Thursday, February 21, 2013

I swear it

All the fields of america
remain still and beat
as the road travels to them--
from out of broken asphalt tombs
and wired chariots
the ghosts of ghost towns USA
trek over farmland
hearthstone golden madness
toiling day and blessed night--
they're never gone completely--
they're in a chime barely heard
just beyond the next hill the next
cliff-side, the next ledge--they'll
make it, they've made it--the path is
never easy and it's never the same--
I will wash my hair under the
pacific sun.

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