cries carry their echoes like scared children
into the deepest pockets of the abyss
waiting for merciless thunder to stop
bombing the earth

where the soil of kinetic frustration
realizes the roots were of pure harmony
a tenderly crafted perfection - brought to life
in an air of laughter
found in back door summers
and ice cold beers

a constructed fantasy - populated
by playful youth on their thrones of rebellion
raising the fire from its safe place
to burst the night sky into crackling bliss
free from chains of pressured change
promising a potential future
stripped of good times
leaving naked anxiety

scars to color perspective
uncertain if this sky is blue or black