I’ve given up on great dreaming watching your beloved train wreck scatter debris – a ruin of start. Your stop signs bent rusted and knock-kneed, a gutter of promise and threadbare. This all feels pothole and picture portrait, with vignette colors standing out so lonely. I’m tired of rubble and five o’clock shadows at three in the morning. Sirens call out for validation and a truce of battlements while this deconstruction of residential zoning half-burnt brick and mortar shell shines. I loved you and your tired desolation – every pebble, every cornerstone crack. From the tip of your flagpole to the sepia sewage grate, I sing these battle hymns to Dixie, cotton and unbroken. But it just feels folktale, and near the end, when we heard the marching machine of man I knew you would never even give me the courtesy of rebuild.