It was the summer.
It was the summer
Of roadtrips
And heartbreak,
Of wave breaks,
And road rage,
And sunsets,
And guilt trips.

It was the best of times
And the fast of times
And the worst of times
And the last of times
It was the summer.

It was the summer of
Tollbooths and
Accelerating cars
And as quick as you go
You pull what chases you
Just at fast,
Newton laws,
For it was the summer.

It was the summer
Of never and always
Of fears and futures
Of clairvoyance
And of foolishness.

To look so on trees,
In Summer's waning scorch
And not see the leaves
Changing, is blindness.
But it was the summer
Of changes unseen.

Autumn slipped in silently,
Not through the back,
Like a servant,
But through the front door,
Like an assassin.

Words were had,

Shots were fired.

Summer is dead,
Cradled in Autumn's arms,
Green life turning to crimson
And yellow, and brown.

The past is only
As good as our last summer.
And this one, well,
It was the summer.
It was the summer.

There’s something wrong
With the rain tonight,
Not quite right
And unattended –
Desolate little drops,
A plenty and falling,
Or leaping,
As suicide’s now stained –
The houses, the trees,
The tollbooths, the tires
And doldrums my feet now reside.
In angst over wet, these lesser and
Imagined crimson,
I encounter a wind,
Quite possibly a whisper,
But a chill to remind bone –
That we all end someday
And we’ll all be ended
Someday
As well.

Sadness is the color of understanding
empathy bores an endless path
at first piercing and ideal, like a flaming arrow
fired into a gelatinous body, it slows
over years and the path before it
twists around realism
a snake wrapped around the heart
in a Gordian Knot, swallowing its own tail
acceptance, defeat, purity
the ideals become gritty
stained with a lens of knowledge
that ultimate, itself, is too perfect to be a trait
grounded in something obtainable, soulless ice reflects
the neglectful capabilities behind the intellect, acknowledging
that meta-metamorphosis that no one is so great
idols are a poisonous cure to this toxic fantasy
the new religious ****** crisis, celebrity in flesh
appreciation, fame, ingratiation, talent and skill
rising above means and station, status and still,
flourishing compassion, a flower bloom on fire
extinguished before it causes trouble, curling lips
biting, the ice manifested on the road oft traveled to mayhem kills
mischief belays this idea, good natured, good intentions
if only, shortcuts through the thicket, frustrations
manipulations, tollbooths rise upon this road,
one a hike by barefoot, through thorn, bramble and gravel
the other all nice blacktop, long and wide, hot and fresh asphalt
progress seems faster, every booth demands more and every exit passed
is farther from the last
while the work it takes to travel the other road, is all the same distance
in all the same time, just harder, what is done to cross a creek leaves a sense
of fulfilled accomplishment
where what is done to get down to the street lives in the past tense
as everything is taken by the inch and replaced with resentment
while everything gained by the mile is unforgettable, unregrettable
to expire on the road is to give everything to a thief within, becoming too tired
to live in these woods, these words, this world is to see truth and find contentment.

Mine eyes have beheld a wanderer, whose ragged breath had left
beneath a beating star, hotter than all the blood behind their heart
and they were haggard, lost in the latter years of a bitter and angry life
that they often contemplated the benefits of living against themself,
for those that wanted them around, their blistered and raw feet
torn to shreds from many miles stripped of skin inch by inch on the ground
learned lessons in lamentation, far too hard headed to relent their suffering
in silence, even wailing to the world, to deaf ears and numb touch
they let birds fly away with beaks full of their flesh, fresh off their back
for that was repentance in their mind, to feed the bugs that crawled up
asking for a meal, in this dire, final hour, let the roadkill return a penance
a buffet for the hungry, this was not too much, theirs was a shared road
they were the only ones who cared, their reasoning was such,
for a helping hand so often had bitten hunks out of this skeleton
now eroding on the road, whose tears were little more than glistening salt
in the sand, dry as its motivations, to deny itself while continuing in misery
a path it knew would end in complete isolation,
a blink and these eyes withdrew the vision, shuffling feet away
the promise of change is always before, and empty until fulfilled
as the spires of a lonely city called Alienation, dare the mouth to say
"I will not follow the footsteps of my future-self, I will change today."

The thing of pathology and roads,
there is a demon named ******,
who exists to lead us astray
ideally, in your world of empathy  
who can resist a stray?