These yellow lines are stuck on repeat.  
Tar, oil and the smell of gasoline.  
Skeletal structure smashed into concrete.
Dead birds, dead deer and the orphan bambi.

The road is known for the art of tragedy.

The beauty in roadkill is not lost on me.

Hold the moment. Then gracefully let go.
Do not interpret the broken clock as a sign of growth.

Let us re-visit the specifics the details the nuances the subtle gestures the sounds and heavy breathing the pain the situation the flames the tornado of lies and lightning of truth.

I am the un-becoming beckoning of lost relevance, a nostalgic tick embedded deep in the epidermis.

I am this.

You're all a bunch of god-**** chickens clucking in the wind.

you swing from a swing. you swing from a vine. you let momentum take you. without a glance behind.
your caught up, tangled in dis-array. stuck between a rock and an even harder place.
your thoughts are misleading your nerves full of doubt. your mind tethered restless and swinging broken golf clubs at a way out.
If your knees could only hold the doubt you now know,
you would plead pity and pray..
Eventually coming to the realization that there is no pre-payed amazing grace.

You beat your chest with bare hands and ****** knuckles. yell **** and curse at twisted ankles.
After you tire, grow thirsty and out of breath
You straighten your *******, fall to your knees and stretch your arm toward the heavens and rest.

"I AM A MONKEY" and my ******* says "WHAT OF IT?"