Heads out windows 
 on strange roads,
 hair fluttering, wind;
 thoughts of whats out 
 there, beyond;
 wide openness,
 free people;
 Does this feeling 
 exist in a harvestable form? 
  
 I am served brief teases 
 of it, 
 whispers down my neck
 when certain songs come on, 
 reminding me
 it’s still there,
 waiting for me to sink 
 my teeth into it.
  
 I’ll plow the field,
 till up the soil 
 of my mind,
 and plant row after row,
 orchards pregnant with 
 its sweet juice.
 I think then  
 and only then
 life will be limitless,
 but probably not,
 because like any good harvest
 it is seeded with inequity. 
 What parts of myself
 did I have to rape, 
 murder and rob,
 to feel this feeling, 
 infinitely?