Children of the south born facing north,
we no longer look to our fallen stars for guidance.
They’ve only succeeded in leading
our forefathers to open bars and early graves.
Instead, we float around like southern snowflakes,
swearing we’re each individuals, though we all look the same.
Led to believe we can achieve anything we crave,
but never taught to adjust our aim.
Blindly drifting into nothing from out of nowhere,
blown this far below the Dixie line on a misguided whim.
It’s not the slick roads
that help us forget how to drive when the first flakes free-fall.
It’s our amazement at the rare sighting of purity
falling from the heavens, our sorrow in its
failing to gain much ground in this interred inferno.
Each unique and beautiful, gliding down ever so gently,
just to melt in the same damned abyss.
Born of a different reality –
like parents visiting from out of town –
we quietly yearn for them,
but loudly object when they stay for too long.
They taunt us with
glimpses of what could have been,
reminders of what once was,
promises of what’s to come.