Pure Gold

Stake a claim, hoping the border of metal rivets or wooden posts are upheld by the honor of those dumb enough to never second guess.

It's here my seeds will sprout to blades of grass, bordering the stream of consciousness, sharpened to the point.

I'll pan my golden dreams to spend nuggets of wisdom on the future.

I'll invest my hopes to balance my fears, rich with paranoia.

As the stranger walks upon the turf made mine, the shield will rise with voices.
Tunnel visions and silver veins.

Striking upon the rush of blood, the gravestone and old oak meet.
Second guessing as a first thought, poor in just minutes to spend.