Disillusionment has it’s tendrils about us.
A stretch of road, honey colored fields on both sides
Is what this mass of organs needs.
Some romantic epic set on the paved arteries,
Some semblance of sun, a wisp of wind,
The blinking of distant stars lighting up the night,
No stale rooms, no wooden floors to creak upon.
No familiarity or monotony to poison the mind.
Just a lush world of tempting, exciting uncertainty.
The open road, downed windows, and exposed top.
Hands thrusted out the sides to catch the wind,
Knowing it can’t be trapped in our open palms,
Beautifully caressing inbetween our fingers.
Drive until you run out of gas,
All the while taking in the bouquet of life’s wines.
Pausing to find repose in those honey colored fields.
Then drifting through the arteries of black and gray.
The road ends where we want it to.