I remember looking at every species of cacti there was and wondering “is that peyote?” This land was foreign to my virgin feet and after crossing the state line I asked my elders if they spoke English here.
It looked as if faces were carved in the stones that spoke clearly molded into their thrones. It was as if the gods opened up the universe to let us in for a moment.
Where life exists in a story book an ageless narrator is still going strong. Out here among sloping mountains and endless plains I am swept away from dull repetition that plagues my spirit. One single day can seem like a month for time is forced to slow down as a higher altitude takes the wheel. The clouds are looked down upon and admired for the first time from impossible angles. How many eyes have fallen victim to this very same disease I suffer from? Despite my hatred for southern slums I cannot ignore the importance of my living quarters for without dreary surroundings my dream might still be in a slumber.
First as first did fall, rested beauty with pureness, and as I recall standing proud and tall, a river passing through.