White water meets white sky.
No escape from this fog bubble we call paradise.
Eyes blinded by white blankets of smoke.
We wonder what is beyond.
A white canvas to project one's desires of a far-off dream.
Anything is better than this, right?
Lewis and Clark were fur traders and left with The Parting Of Ways on the Oregaon Trail making way for Mormons to settle the Southland.
Shahola in Pike County and one of sixty-seven in Pennsylvania..
Hicky has been there to bleed a knife where once it traced him
in the knees like a robot he fought his colors in a foe but his registered *** offender agreed where feelings hurt inside the belt
that flood was never analgesic again and let him gun down nights
he walked alas with cleated shoes as future most often did ****** with just his uniform search for sovereignty and dignified marksman with courageousness that ended his justiceship in Harris County.
Sheriff Hickman will survive Houston
impale olympic skies! their pacific
avarice, turbulence, mai-tai-dyed
oxycontin contradictions pull out
deep convictions to rift meteoric
and fall apart.
The big day was a week away
The streets were being swept
Folding stands erected
Where homeless, last week slept
To make a good impression
The Mayor told one and all
To step up and take note
To answer his loud call
We must show the whole country
We are the best at what we do
We have to show the country
The best side of me and you
This meant weeks before this
The police were out in force
Removing the imperfections
Both on foot and out on horse
A cleansing of the city
Make it nice for all to see
It brings up bitter memories
At least it does to me
It happened back in Europe
A little corporal took command
He did his little cleansing
With his little **** band
The town had hung up bunting
Like the banners in Berlin
being homeless is a problem
It's not where a cleansing should begin
The mayor had plans for plenty
Marching bands and lots of press
He'd only answer pre-set questions
In case it all became a mess
He had to have it perfect
It was his first parade you know,
the streets were freshly steam cleaned
There was nothing he didn't want to show
The displaced folks all huddled
Down in the park, a mile back
Veterans and soldiers
Whites, Hispanics, and some black
Their town was in transition
They were the cities hidden sore
They would never be accepted
Never let inside a door
The Mayor stood on the dais
Waved and smiled as folks went by
It was a town of smoke and mirrors
He showed the world a great big lie
Like the small Austrian corporal
who refused to change and would not bend
The Mayor lied to his country
It was the beginning of his end
The eerie warmth that comes with the calm before.
The unnerving shade of black that only clouds can claim.
The heat that rises from tarmac on empty, open roads.
The scent of petrichor from the passing of earlier rain.
The first rumble starts somewhere unknown and distant.
The suggestion, an omen, of the beginning of an end.
The first drop of rainfall from another night of storms.
The thunder waking creatures from their beds.
The sounds increase slowly as time crawls and passes.
The night is young and roars keep rolling in.
The dark, as such, so early in the evening.
The set of warm goosebumps rising over skin.
The colour of the sunset behind their eyelids.
The blood of Gods is soaking up their breaths.
The momentary post apocalyptic sense of living.
The moody skies catalyse thoughts of untimely deaths.
The passing of the clouds seems dangerously fast.
The growls now thick and boisterous, vehement and clear .
The dust that whips past legs and arms and faces.
The shelter is no barrier for the splitting of an ear.
The tranquillity of standing up in air now still.
The peace of opportunity to look over horizons.
The aftermath of rain and wind and thunder.
The silence of one mind becoming enlightened.
I like thunder storms.
— The End —