She forks up her dream that’s been spilled on the floor
Favoring a coffee mug as the cold, winter sun intrudes in her room
She’s a folly cub, lonesome in that Kansas whirlwind
Prairie fields, where she buries her bruises
Monochrome, shallow skies weigh her down
And, she’s a storm, not a burden
I feel her rain, that flash of desolation
That false rumble of impunity
She’s faking.
She cries and covers the grass
Pushing it all out in increments of static
Her clouds flash in a maelstrom of temper
Folly
She’s a folly cub
But, she’s got heart.
