Jealous roads
of gray gravel,
cut across
the black tops
bringing back
the dirt and dust
that we track
from the tread
of our black
dead tires.
Gingerly
travelers like me
work
the waves of
winds that
bluster
and brag about
the voices
of the past.
Daylight shifts
to nighttime bliss,
as the melody
of madness and poetry
consumes me.
I know
that it is
time to move on.
Still, I strive to hold on
to hope,
but hope is
the same torn
and tired rope
that I use
to wrap around my neck,
till all consciousness forgets
I ever bothered to exists.