[real talk] Of Prose And Prayer

A small farm sits naked on the horizon
Surrounded by gold and green
The sunburnt raw flesh of Mother Earth
Lays wrinkled across the land that vessels of commerce carved their way through
These arteries carry a self-aware life force
Across an otherwise autonomous existence
And she bears the scars of their self-imposed trials
But I admire a woman that lets it all show with pride
The way only a mother could display such trophies

I sit at the corner of the bar fixated
Staring at my dream
Staring at a dream deferred, reluctantly
Surrounded by dreams
And dreamers
Dead sleep for misled sheep
Dead sleep before the dirt nap

The leaves turn
The world turns
The glass empties
And the farm now stands defiant from me
Glowing from the sunset as an ancient temple
It speaks a soft epiphany to a destitute martyr
Of a lost cause
In a tone of reverence and pity

I reciprocate with the tense scribbles of prose
On the back of a measly paystub
Paper worth less than these words
To exchange for paper worth less than paper
All of it worse less than these dreams
And yet
It all leads to the same place

Dreams and dreamers
Surrounded
Will I ever make it out of here?
Will this burden, this noble calling
Be engraved upon my sword
Or my stone?