
flakes of dried up trees
under an endless skyway
that teases your senses
I'll get there in a bit
you think
and down the hill
in the wavy air
that sea of asphalt
suddenly looks like
god's chosen gift
except its all a lie
and maybe its all true that
the devil doesn't live in georgia
but on a dune of hope
looking down at splintered remains.
(Picture by Melissa at o.f.i.a.b.)