Captivated and stricken,

there is a seed inside.

You’ve got calling and curse,

a straight desert road into the sun.

A blacktop grave,

paved but not sure.

Moonlight and stars,

they’re in your eyes,

filling you up with this romanticism

this drive that keeps the wind in your hair

and a song on your lips.

Reminiscent of the beats of old.

The soul of the nation rests in your chest.

The passion to live free,

to know, to hear, to play the song

that gets planted, sprouts, and buds

in the soil and care of a listener,

a poet, a preacher, a lover,

an artist and a musician.

Grow that tree friend,

get on the road and grow.

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