I awaken to the neighbor's mower.
I'm flattened by the weight of it - the routine.
The manicured lawns and shiny SUV's.
Endless rows of identical houses.
Perfect families with their 2.5 children.
They claim to believe in Heaven,
mansions and streets of gold.
The American dream carried even after death.
I dreamed of firelight,
of being Irish. A storyteller.
My words ghosted to only a few
and passed down through generations.
Have I told you that I love windy days?
Gusts caught in sleeves and hair.
It suddenly makes all things seem possible.
I'm flattened by the weight of it - the routine.
The manicured lawns and shiny SUV's.
Endless rows of identical houses.
Perfect families with their 2.5 children.
They claim to believe in Heaven,
mansions and streets of gold.
The American dream carried even after death.
I dreamed of firelight,
of being Irish. A storyteller.
My words ghosted to only a few
and passed down through generations.
Have I told you that I love windy days?
Gusts caught in sleeves and hair.
It suddenly makes all things seem possible.
1 comment:
Ah, you've captured how I feel about living in the suburbs. Wanting to get out of here and live in place that is more stimulating and has purpose. Living with inspiration. Yet having that peaceful feeling of fitting in and feeling at home...
Post a Comment