The gentle sways of up and down,
of crash and burn,
on a pastel road that hasn't seen concrete mixers
for as long as it can remember.
Yellow, white and specs of green
stretch across the ground
like dried paint covering bone and dirt.
These fields roll on and on,
where the sun is always shining
and dreams fill the air with their fleeting lights,
bringing texture to this wavy haze.
"I wish more than just dandelions would grow here."
"That's not road rash, I just stubbed my toe."
"When did we lose it all?"
You can fool me,
can even fool yourself,
and so you become trapped
within the horizon of these swaying hills.