Today the mist refuses to rise from the butchered mountains
with dug out veins and over developed features
whose sole pupose must be to house the fallen leaves
to inspire images of azure and smoke,
only to dub themselves with names other than "Appalachia".
These mountains that don't love us.
The same ones that were disected so many years ago
Like a picture with the sun cut out,
these mountains who's tunneled innards
are now strung with dimly lit roads.
Imagine if someone shoved a strand of Christmas lights
through your intestines.
I wrote this on January
14th. I was sit
ting above a tunnel on the side of a mountain, overlooking a long
string of chain
restaurants, with mountain
ing in the distance