The highway hums a weary psalm beneath my feet,
its dust a map of promises I couldn’t keep,
the dusk sinking low like a blessing I can’t repeat,
the wind confessing secrets in a rhythm slow and sweet,
and every mile reminding me why I still can’t sleep.
A semi groans past like a tired god shifting his frame,
its lights carving gold where the shadows creep,
and I raise my thumb though I know I’m the one to blame,
for carrying memories that burn hotter than flame,
while the road keeps its promises buried deep.
I follow the rails where the tall grass leans to pray,
their whispers soft as a grieving mother’s weep,
as a steel-lunged freight train rolls in, moaning gray,
its heartbeat shaking the moonlight in a trembling sway,
and calling me aboard in a language carved from sleep.
I climb its ribs, let the cold iron judge my hands,
feel the boxcar breathe like something ancient and steep,
past counties flickering by in half-forgotten lands,
past barns bowed low like men who can’t make stands,
while loneliness stacks itself inside me in a growing heap.
I think of you then—your voice a low river in June,
your laughter the only vow I ever meant to keep,
but the train moves on, deaf to the ache of any tune,
dragging my heart behind it like a shamed old moon,
and promises fall quiet when the memory’s steep.
A station appears in the dark, small as a held breath,
lamps buzzing amber while the broken windows peep,
and I leap from the car like a man outrunning death,
knees buckling under truths I thought I left,
yet the dirt still knows the secrets I fail to keep.
I walk again, searching for a song not soaked in pain,
humming low where the cattails bow and sweep,
but the night has no mercy for a soul thin as rain,
and the stars blink awake like they barely know my name,
their light falling off me in a scatter slow and cheap.
Still I go on, half ghost, half man, half prayer,
following the trembling road’s uneven beat,
for maybe salvation lives in the towns of thinner air,
or in the hope that sorrow can be carried if you’re aware,
that even the lost find kindness where sky and blacktop meet.
And if tomorrow comes with a softer shade of dawn,
I’ll greet it gently, though my wounds are deep,
for every mile traveled means another grief withdrawn,
another weary verse in the song I lean upon,
and maybe, just maybe, a little rest to keep.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 12:44 AM UTC
The highway hums a weary psalm beneath my feet,
its dust a map of promises I couldn’t keep,
the dusk sinking low like a blessing I can’t repeat,
the wind confessing secrets in a rhythm slow and sweet,
and every mile reminding me why I still can’t sleep.
A semi groans past like a tired god shifting his frame,
its lights carving gold where the shadows creep,
and I raise my thumb though I know I’m the one to blame,
for carrying memories that burn hotter than flame,
while the road keeps its promises buried deep.
I follow the rails where the tall grass leans to pray,
their whispers soft as a grieving mother’s weep,
as a steel-lunged freight train rolls in, moaning gray,
its heartbeat shaking the moonlight in a trembling sway,
and calling me aboard in a language carved from sleep.
I climb its ribs, let the cold iron judge my hands,
feel the boxcar breathe like something ancient and steep,
past counties flickering by in half-forgotten lands,
past barns bowed low like men who can’t make stands,
while loneliness stacks itself inside me in a growing heap.
I think of you then—your voice a low river in June,
your laughter the only vow I ever meant to keep,
but the train moves on, deaf to the ache of any tune,
dragging my heart behind it like a shamed old moon,
and promises fall quiet when the memory’s steep.
A station appears in the dark, small as a held breath,
lamps buzzing amber while the broken windows peep,
and I leap from the car like a man outrunning death,
knees buckling under truths I thought I left,
yet the dirt still knows the secrets I fail to keep.
I walk again, searching for a song not soaked in pain,
humming low where the cattails bow and sweep,
but the night has no mercy for a soul thin as rain,
and the stars blink awake like they barely know my name,
their light falling off me in a scatter slow and cheap.
Still I go on, half ghost, half man, half prayer,
following the trembling road’s uneven beat,
for maybe salvation lives in the towns of thinner air,
or in the hope that sorrow can be carried if you’re aware,
that even the lost find kindness where sky and blacktop meet.
And if tomorrow comes with a softer shade of dawn,
I’ll greet it gently, though my wounds are deep,
for every mile traveled means another grief withdrawn,
another weary verse in the song I lean upon,
and maybe, just maybe, a little rest to keep.
Don’t remember when or where this one was written but I do remember being exhausted and it was raining. But it was a really nice, calming rain and it helped me sleep which was sick