I am from the edge of a Wisconsin wood
Whose filter stole my light
From sunsets across the road and throughout the sky
Where trees were few, and alone.
From feelings of being out of reach
Of my destiny, or unique paths to reach it.

I am from poisoned bottles in the yard
I was convinced were from the street.
From a sense of perfect innocence
That is lost, dead from action but not from thought.

I am from the clan of the genuine.
My ballot turned in.
From a heart in my head which escapes through the holes
And clogs the air like smoke.

Now I am from golden memories too
I am not a perfect tragedy.
But gold does not leave scars.
My gold I let be.