"Don't fret," he says,
As feet singe along the highway
As callouses form
And perdition looms ever closer

"We do not count missteps here," he says,
As our eyelids flutter
As colors bleed
And the horizon becomes our last best hope

"Perchance one day I tame this gravity," he says,
"I may yet label these perils as the cruces of my life,"
As mirages dance
And tomorrow's spies step out of shadow

"Ensure, my child, you settle your debts," he says,
As the fog dissipates
As pockets jingle
And the road eschews its weary travelers