Half concious
half asleep
floating on the line
between shallow and deep.
Can't decide
up or down,
light or dark,
straight or round.
Like the time right after
awakening, when a dream's
still fresh and defined.
Such a strange thing--
the mind.
Pretty town--poor town
blowing whisps of corn--deflated dreams
floating on the wind.
Just want to escape
dont fit the sterotype.
There's only one type of
person here.
I'm gonna be a farmer's wife
and the only way out is a
4-lane highway
that ends in a field
of dead sunflowers.
Pools of purple daisys
fields of reddish blooms
binding together
a colored lock
breathtaking displays intertwined.
Through the ripped screen door
voices float to our ears
poverty leads to pain
underneath that unforgiving summer's sky
birth reserected plans
to steal away by the cover of night.
Desprate dreams of far away places
we would never see.
The littlest angel--my sister--
climbs beneath the threadbear covers
clinging to me
as if she is afread
the morning would find us
absent as well.
Between generic crosses and
unmarked stones
lies death
and stolen souls.
Between unhinged gates and
unnoticed plots
Llies life
taken by the barrel of a gun.
Between delapadated shanties and
forgoten bones
lies suffering
and fear slain away.
Between poor pine coffins and
unnoticed rot
lies death
in potters field.
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