Down On The Rabbit Farm

the American dream is dying,

like some ancient half-baked myth,

taking one last breath,

waiting for the end,

still we continue on,

traveling down broken

empty highways on the way

to bigger pastures,

afraid of the consequences

but never looking back;

even once;

on the road to Wyoming

with the fiery rabbit princess,

we ran into a band of

hairy, drunk, Greek sailors;

how could she resist?

leaving me there

high and dry,

somewhere in Iowa,

with visions of wide-open spaces

and endless rabbit farms

dancing in my head;

still it lives on;

the fever burns bright

on this stagnate moonless night,

providing the worlds only light,

in a land of limited, breathless sight;

“who is it for?”

she screams aloud;

standing naked and cold,

shivering uncontrollably

in the morning mist,

surrounded by mighty armies

dressed in black;

but not a sound echoes back.

.

.