A person, a thing

Another minute down
Sand still faced timeless structures
So it turned to something less intimidating
A person thing
Not a person
A thing

He trod on grass
Bedewing the green carpet
With a mist of his own
But dew from a man wasn’t enough
Such a thought was hubris
That it would be enough

He had to try, though
To escape from the heartland’s prison
Or his own warped version
That was mapped onto great plains
Sinking into grain silos
Rotting cows and the sides of barns
Tainting the grass on which he stood
Painting the sky a delicious pink

Time was maturing
Becoming quite beautiful and ripe
Honoring its advanced age
The prison seemed sweet again
And the bars came tumbling down

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