The Storm of an American Gridlock
The world stands still. Always for a moment. Father Time reckons with mortality. Cries for reform echo across Mother Earth, words like ripples mature into swells. A wave of change comes swooshing, rolling in like the rush of a tide. Awash the old for golden grains of new. Promise on the horizon. Hope is the sparkle from the deep brought to the surface.
Clouds, centers dark, all strange fluff, purchase the skies. The blue recedes. Above front-gazing heads wages an epic battle of squalls and roars. Language unfamiliar trickles down to the soil. A damp interpretation of a flood much larger. Hope is the eye of an unforgiving spiral.
Truth leeches into sod, absorbed by thirsty roots. Revolution, a nutrient for reaching limbs and thick bark. Trees sow seeds of a new dawn with a golden sky. No clouds for troubled slumbers. Early blooms. Ambitious. Tiny and mighty. Hope is the petal blush on the voyaged winds of change.
Bees sting, and pollens on the backs of winged creatures reach parts unknown and back again to the fields of blossom and the sweet honey of justice. Hope settles on lands of opportunity.
Gray vapors sweep in and hover low on young grasses. An infiltration of sunless dew. Stories of fiction in the ears of frail blades. Broken by the time they’re grown, sworn to a sky that acts committed to life but expects death. Hope is the ache filling the empty pit.
Bolts of yellow flash. Hollow songs of crisis follow. A wail for change. Whispers of prayer on the lips of front-facing heads. For every vein of wrath, borne another statistic. A number on the count. Stunted in Father Time. Gone from Mother Earth. Hope dies with the fallen. The world stands still. Always for a moment.
