the American dream is dying;
like some ancient,
half-baked myth,
taking one last breath,
it lies there waiting for the end,
still we continue on,
traveling down broken, empty highways,
on the way to bigger pastures,
afraid of the consequences,
but never looking back,
not even once;
on the road to Wyoming
with the fiery rabbit princess,
we ran into a band of
hairy, drunk, Greek sailors;
how could she resist?
leaving me there
high and dry,
somewhere in Iowa ,
with visions of wide-open spaces,
and endless rabbit farms,
dancing in my head,
still it lives on;
the fever burns bright,
on this stagnate moonless night,
providing the worlds only light,
in a land of limited, breathless sight;
“who is it for?”
she screams aloud;
standing naked and cold,
shivering uncontrollably in the
morning mist,
surrounded by mighty armies
dressed in black,
but not a sound echoes back.
.
.
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