The child in the pushchair leans forwards. Touches the wheels while they move, later this revolves to watching wheels of a bus and wishing to be underneath them and maybe we're all just looking for a way out and a getaway driver, maybe this room with a view we built to ruin is flooding and we're pressing our open lips to the ceiling, grappling for a last breath and pushing time for a second more and maybe that escape route is waiting round the corner, a lamppost with flowers cellotaped to it, a place away from the place our parents kicked us out, drove us to the middle of nowhere and made us walk ourselves home, telling us this is a metaphor of life, waiting for a place for us to rest our blistered ankles and bruised wrists, a place where there's someone we lost waiting for us, holding our their hand to bring us home, but I guess, maybe, for now we're gonna have to stare at buses and wish for those pushchair wheels and the days we stared at the pavement moving beneath us and wanted to be anything but a painting on the road.
If Daphne she's leaving behind those tires that slay these roads like chains for brighter climes that diversion claims horse and winds hoofs that ream dots in trailers as nights turnaround my love dame
A love of law that my sisters groove on this highway!
This is the story Of a Truck driver Who never stops driving Unwillingly he lives on the road Hoping he will find love in motion He wasn't looking to love someone else He is searching love for himself And at the same time He is running from feelings Running from the hurts He should be told He carries it on every road That head that tells him O! Truck driver navigate left away from tragic street For twenty four years And yet today He is still driving Hoping the road will teach him To love himself again