Golden mist.

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AMERICANA CLASSIC

I have dreamed of Americana
Simplicity.
Knowing the land
Out side my front door.
Sunset close
On picture perfect
Pictures of perfect.
Nothing holds me
And everything holds me
To it.
What does it mean?
To be a man?
Here?
Curriculum counterweighted
To guarantee compliance
With Americana dialect.
Have it all for nothing,
That being what I never earned in the first place:
MY freedom.
My war was never fought
And now hopes and dreams sleep
Amidst tall grass
And star gaze through july nights
Tucked in by sunset wheat.
Hearts explore this mighty expanse
Hoping to find a remedy to not knowing
Struggle.
Paper purchase and power falls
Short when the grass turns to snakes
And stars fall
Like perfectly, planned projectiles.
These lands are now
The lands of unrealized potential.
No.
Scratch that.
Rather,
The lands of the unrealized.
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