Rolling in lilacs,
crying to the sky.
Watching from a Cadillac,
only to see a lie.

Fireflies filled with luminosity,
flying without a doubt.
Measured in curiosity,
time runs out.

Batting a butterfly,
we see a strange sight.
Gathering some rye,
I turn to the right.

A peculiar perspective,
passes through the mind,
Envisioned with perceptive,
from a one of a kind.

We are enlightened,
of some incredible news.
We are delighted,
knowing we can’t lose.

The farm shall not stop,
for it harvests too much.
We receive a plentiful crop,
yet we give to the Dutch.

We sit on a windowsill,
watching father sell.
For we know winter’s kill,
puts father in a cell.

The Dutch take all,
but leaves scraps for us.
We are left to mull,
leaving us to fuss.

Shots fire in the distance,
run to her tombstone.
She is filled with resistance,
And tries to postpone.