Through wires where we sold perfection,
As the mirror fed you cold reflection,
You walked through hell with furrowed brow,
And thought that you’d be home by now,
Before the sorrow, nameless grief,
Count on fingers, toes and teeth,
Those hours that you lost to longing,
Safe in your place, never belonging,
Now filtered through the windshield glare,
As four wheels take you anywhere,
Then lose you when the sun burns out,
Bleary eyes, hands weak with doubt,
You carry more than you can pack,
And a god who whispers nothing back,
As you venture into the great unknown,
To find your path, or pave your own,
Repeating softly, round and round,
“There’s still some hope yet to be found.”