Roads

I return time and again
to the familiar theme
of roads.

Roads long and bent
roads straight as the
proverbial arrow, leading nowhere.

We lean into winds on roads
whose culmination always stands
beyond the scope of our eyes,
black lines bleeding stains of
tragic memory down wells
of bent brain tissue.

There is no morning on these roads,
no evening yet to come. There is only
the surge of invisible traffic singing
in the lanes of the soul, the taste of

exhaust gasses yet to be dreamed,
the unknown sound of motors unmade,
the slow slide of clock hands
uncrafted,

sweeping faces too grim to ponder.