In this meadow of Indians,

comes a howl from pale winds,

one that whispers to the trees,

who slump deformed,

longing to sway in patches

of thin pokes of wild flowers,

with nervous dragonflies, 

and beastly birds. 

But what they aren't aware of, 

is buried a bitter earth, 

for resisting against the dark clay,

descends one to a tired soul,

and the brute breathless

that lies beneath it's skin.

Ignorant to the scars it carries. 

The trees sway happiliy, no eagerly. 

Oblivious to the lonesome 

screams that stir to the sky. 

Bones of warriors, 

lost skulls of infant, 

and blooming bouquets of crystal,

for forgotten beyond shadow. 

With time man conquered, 

a golden field, knotted trees, 

feathered beasts, and florets 

and dripped smug pavement.

To concot plastic skeletons, 

to house blonde children. 

The Meadow of Indians, 

now serves as a grave of suburban dreams.