should they make the pavements of green grass
so that the blades can cut our sense, bare foot
and telegraph poles would rise to canopies of leaves
that shade us from nightmares that do abound here
where the hum is of bee and bird on their way
and the pockets of silence fill with freshness of air
that our dreams are in the clouds, as should be
not fixed in gutters of concrete and metal construct
to live in metropolis, built in a manner it ought
from the womb of the mother of all cities, we cry
to draw back our curtains and look outward in despair
toward towers of symbolic disconnection to mater
to the gray day that extends such many an hour
where to the hope escape to rolling hills so near
finding our path, and the course of true direction
copyright © Rob Snow | creative 2009-2018
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