Fields burning at the seams with color in the morning light. Sky scrapers rising from the depths of an ocean made of concrete. My world is seen through the glass of a moving picture show. The green landscapes I've come to never know and the daydreams I know so well. Gazing up at the blue sky as i pass it by, never stopping to wonder why I feel this way. Broken white lines and fixed ones that go on forever. The middle of nowhere ends in the beginning of anywhere. Somewhere along these lines, i'm sure my mind will be made up. The sky darkens as the day slowly dies. The darkest clouds, almost skeleton in comparison, drift like ghosts suspended in air. The small lakeside towns we pass through are frozen in time. The houses, the cars, the people, even the music playing in my head should be somewhere 35 years ago. Orchards under a black sky, lie between individual suburbias. Ligtening infects and plagues the sky to pieces. When finally the clouds relent to their masochistic cravings and bleed the rain. The raindrops hit the glass that holds me and wrap around it. Bleeding more and more, harder and harder, the transparency starts to kick in. Small oceans form on the windshield and drown in themselves as i drown in my thoughts.
Photography and Poetry
©August Wylder, 2008
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