I am driving back home
my motions automatic
against my will
returning dutifully
to face my life again.

I am doing the right thing, the good thing, the necessary thing.
The obvious, singular choice.

My thoughts of flight are absurd and cowardly, a fantasy created
because my energy is dying,
as is my passion
and even my
love.

...love.
how?? why?? could I let my love grow so stale

In my arrogance I equate flying into the unknown darkness
of lonely back roads
with idealism
denying that my fantasy is born of
pure selfishness.

I am an idle watchman, a soldier idly contemplating desertion before even reaching real conflict.

I am still on the right route, turning stiffly left
now facing fully towards home.
Doing all the right things
on autopilot and
cursing
every
second.