So far away are the days that like the horizon seemed filled with eternal promises to face side by side.
First as friends, then as frolicking fools too blind to see the roads sharp fork that would divide like a deep chasm.
Still, we rushed forward on passions temporary fuel hitting the first bump, soon to be trapped in a cycle of blissful agony, like new life growing only to wilt in the unceasing cold to come.
But, as a dead flower leaves a seed, So did we leave scars, that tells a tale to carry each of us with the other as we move on. Perhaps, A lesson learned or a wound to be examined on colder days, that like the markers along a journey guides us going forward.
So as dents display the wisdom our once fresh bodies did develope on our trip,
We learned to seek out bumps to avoid and though we drive different roads In opposite seasons, peace floods me as the passing road markers down memory lane become like the grave stone on that forking road where I layed each wilted petal of the flower on the dash to rest along the road on that autumn trip.
Love like a fresh flower on the dash of ones first car, where freedom is found, wilts in the sun as we drive forward on our paths, someday we may pull over in a beautiful field and pick a new flower after the petals from our first love have completely fallen off and we are ready to lay then go rest in an unmarked grave