The Rock that Blows

In my youth, there was this tale

echoing from the Blue Ridge—

of love fierce as fire

between a Cherokee Brave

and a Chickasaw Squaw.

As years spun by,

those cliffs whispered still,

like little league dreams—

bolts of lightning,

crashing horizons, shaken with fear,

the thrill of violence—

like a live wire with

reckless abandon,

running high on the

gas of new dreams,

against dark crimson skies,

colliding.