the road is smooth. silken. the distance is gnarled. toothy. nervously whittled down from some greater mass until it is small enough that we can grab it. i don't go anywhere. i never have. such is the nature of a wanderer.
people move about. lives change locations. scenery scatters. places wink in and out. no different than dreams. we close our eyes and worlds unfold. we open them again and it's all different. for no real reason. for no logic at all. it's just the illusion of progress embedded deep in our molecules. the thumbprint of an ancient force propelling us onward in a landscape long since stagnated.
the road is uneven. in texture and in clarity. an angry old woman gumming the truth of us. patrons of frailty and rage. equally as hard as she is delicate. the places swallow us. the moments feast on our eagerness to find somewhere. to discover someone. to know where to go. or how to get there.
there are miles. they tumble like broken stones. there are turns. they hiss and boil. a teakettle left on the stove.
the road unravels. knots undone. places turn. at impossible intersections. nowhere to go.
the distance accumulates. a deepening debt.
Monday
9/07/2015 02:15:00 AM
| Life Poems |