For it was not anger but sorrow—
At the Abandonment—laid bare—
The dandelion—blown to pieces—
Wishes scattered—everywhere.

She could hear their Thoughts—their Fears—
A chorus—soft—yet sharp—
She wished to hide inside herself—
A hollow—without a harp.

Self-medication’s quiet needle—
Addiction’s velvet glove—
She yearned for Home—but found illusion—
A mirage—far from Love.

She stared into the blank horizon—
Falling—farther still—
A call for asylum—ghostly scribes—
No cure for her ill will.

They stopped questioning the Overdose—
What happens—must occur—
We take precautions—but in the end—
The void—we will still endure.

He lied—his promises dissolving—
No Trust resides in Truth—
Sabotaged—her fragile Being—
An existence—gone uncouth.

The grace of a lone sparrow falters—
Circles—spiraling near—
Yet never reaching—centers hollow—

The road, a cold and lonely place.
Where a man can feel his heart break and spirit soar in equal measure.
Those long desolate Highways heading west.
Heading  nowhere  into distant mountain ranges that seem always out of reach.
Where do they go, I momentarily wonder, then know, as the road now leads to valleys below.
The ebb and flow,
the high and the low.
That is the road.
Where a man can lose himself,
yet find his soul.