what seems like a superhighway
paved with ethics and morality
is more often than not
a testament to
the mortality of your own **** patience.

the high road may seem like
a one-way ticket to sainthood
but to buy the ticket,
you trade in tears and frustration,
some anger, some jubilation,
some friends out on some vacation,
some pacing around the house
with no destination.

forgiving and forgetting
sound like two different things,
but on the high road,
they make for unusual companions -
one sits wistfully in the back
of your mind's carriage,
and the other struggles and riles
against the very doors
meant to hold it in.

on the high road,
memory can be a painful mistress,
tempting long sessions of reflection -
turning into an affliction that
l o v e s
to cloud your sense of history.

the high road
was built on backs of practice -
a labour of hurt, a labour of defeat.
the high road
offers exits at so many points,
but they're all marked
with the danger sign.