Each full rotation of wheels,
Like screws,
At sixty mile per hour,
Serve to crank and coil,

Until the arm reaches for a cigarette,

Roaring across a scenic landmass,
Oblivious to its picturesque landscapes,
Alive to fear and war,
A fight for space most near one's core,

The motor coach speeds,
But the mind, it races.

Past experience spy-hopping from the deep,

No rolling hill,
Or tropical palm,

Can disengage such focus,

Cure the self.
Curse myself.

The chaos beaten down with effulgences of affirmation,
Like bubbles of light emerging from a tar pit,

Fueling this crusade,
For something good.