Wandering words of wisdom
curl eagerly
around the smoke stack songs of southern savages.
Whispered wordlessly through the generations
my gut boils with ******* bravery.
The sounds of ancient ruins
those panted grunts of trance bound elders
are what they have named me.
I've plucked my eyes from their plush pillows.
The lies they slept in kept them slow and useless.
They will wander in the dark
open with anticipation
free of the blinding roads of gold
you had set so slyly as traps for them.