The burnt grass drapes like a worn-out blanket,
While the darkened overhead ski looms lonely,
A whistling wind rushes by calling to all of us,
Worn-torn buildings tilting over like defeat.

Animals bolting crossed a rain-soaked path,
The rain drizzles downward making its way,
Windshield wipers jump helplessly to and fro,
While our minds are fixated in the fog this day.

Overhead birds circle in some mad-like dance,
We hear the banshees calling from the woods,
The endless flapping of the tires upon the road,
A dull-like sound so repetitious it truly drones.

On this sojourn, we've won and lost our minds,
Hell-bent drifters on the path of going nowhere,
Faster and faster propelling us along our way,
Feeling helpless on this journey to the unforeseen.