Piercing the white veil,
The tarmac steaming
from overrun millions.
Dotted yellow hexagrams,
lost in a backward glance.
Far from precious cerulean skies
Farther still from incarnadine sunrise.
The predawn grey swirls it's silken dress,
Alluring all towards the edge.
Heavy hands hold the circle
while bleary eyes fail to pierce the translucent fog.
The black road;
smeared with last nights fallen remnants
begs for another story to travail over it,
or fall prey to it's countless tragedies.
The taste of stale coffee bites,
with an acidic bitterness that gags.
that memorable flavor
Combining with the old taste of the last cigarette,
brings the pain of aging headaches,
and memories of stories before the road.