i'm heading out Midwest to put some demons to rest
and travel the paths covered in broken branches and dried-earth leaves
they bend away and turn into themselves
towards the darker parts of the forest brush-dried weeds
trails walked 300 years ago
won't be tread upon twenty-first century feet
blue bleeding Americana, folk tales against dizzy lantern lights
more charming than concrete swamps turning towards the darker parts
i'm heading down South with my heart in my mouth
through thick field flies and golden rods swaying in tangled hot heaviness
cotton talk picked for a price 300 years ago chains still solid with
the stability of a bone somewhere between that and sand
turning towards the darker parts of battle drawn musket barrels
red bleeding Southern soil dug deep into crimson sand
i'm heading back east to wrestle the beast
that sits in a tree turning towards the darker parts of heavy set consciences
that haunt folklore tellers at campfire firefly excursions
fire coated mountaintops 300 years ago unsettled cabin lodges
birch trees burnt to cinder ash and scraps of red, orange and yellow
gold bleeding Northern sun traps in warmth to store for the atmosphere stars
even roses do not bloom for anyone only for the selfish thorns
get picked, bleeding American filled with painful doubt in pasts' presence
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