The highway here runs to a point
on the horizon that looks so far away
it almost seems pointless in going after it.
The sky is monstrous, deep blue leviathan,
mouth agape, ready to swallow the world.

Thunderheads gather in the distance
ready to battle newer dawns.
The creeping shadows of yesteryear
still cling to the barren soil,
where blood was spilled in the name of nothing,
where land was lost in the spoils of something.
The thunderbird hasn’t been spotted for centuries.

Extinction seems to be a euphemism for life here,
where death imagines paradise,
she who draws pictures in the sand,
summoning a creature long forgotten,
burned up in the curse of the desert.
Somewhere in the thinly-defined contours
of the pale black distant hills,
an old man with a pipe might still dream.

I thought I saw you floating above the asphalt,
but you faded as I approached.
Your form gave way to air,
the mythology of your mirage
believed and prayed to by one.
That’s all your mythology needs,
I wouldn’t share my vision with others,
I’d want to all for my own.

Still the road goes on,
a coiled snake swallowing its tail.
I heard mention of the Ouroboros Trail,
somewhere not too far from here.
Maybe this is it, traveling in circles
far too big to feel, far too big to realise.
The thunderheads are in front of me.
Am I approaching the mouth of the snake?

The clouds grumble displeasure.
A forked-tongue bolt of lightning
bores a hole in the ground by my feet.
The light doesn’t blind, it caresses,
and memories regress to mythologies
as the snake opens up her mouth,
death draws one final symbol,
the old man takes one more draw of his pipe.

Here the mythologies never gave way completely.
Here is where the forgotten gods,
the forgotten stories, the forgotten realms,
all clash for the minds of the few who remember.
Was it the sound of thunder that shook my bones
or the sounds of angry gods reclaiming my soul?