Sleeping to the sound of the truck's motion vibrating my eight year old arms,
I dreamt of skyscrapers peppering mountains like trees.
A current of cars rushing on highway rivers,
The undertow of black rubber skid tracks.
I dreamt of cities at night looking like pearls,
threaded by bridges to wear around my neck.
And then suddenly opening my eyes,
the way children can sense when they're home;
I woke up to blazing orange lights against blackness and pine trees,
looking like the fires of coal-powered engines, of cigarette thoughts.
The logging yard lit up like sunlight through stained glass church windows
or a desert oasis.
These trucks being loaded and unloaded were endless,
This has always existed, I thought to myself,
This will always exist.
Ten years later, I can see those lights from my backyard
with logging trucks going east and west
and I am eight years old again thinking,
This is how God must feel.
i won't explain.
You've really grown as a writer I believe. The only suggestion I'd like to make is to maybe change 'This had always existed' to 'This has always existed'. I just find it to make more sense. The rest I love, especially your choice of words that helped to create some very vivid images for me. I like reflective poems.
Un. Fucking. Believable.