Open your mouth,
and swallow the south.
There's a moth
beating your tonsils,
I'm coughing like a derelict.
It's not the hate, its the heat
that's making me sick.
Sweat is making
a campground on my forehead.
My feet trample nude
across these grounds
that house the dead.
There's nothing
like a Mason-Dixon
cemetery procession
to get the blood
flowing through your veins.
And nothing else like
this southern hospitality
that spills through the streets
like busted water mains.
I'm truly believing
that I'm melting
into the concrete under me.
An open-eyed sky with
a hazy sun stares back
and beckons "Be Free"
I wish I could.
But sometimes I forget.
There's a funeral
in the west.
Let me open my mouth again.
What happened to progress? |
Submission Name: The Humble South vs. A New Wind
