It is a drive that should have been
done long ago, one that was meant
to be, a far winding way north
along a path of wasted asphalt.
A drive I take to find myself
amongst the grey parchment of this
earth, bound only by my failings
to truely understand what I've become.
A man alone, without substance
for my heart that beats the ticks
of the roadway, longing to understand
why it is you cannot see me.
Have the clouds become thick with
envy, for my cause is unkown, and I
have yet to truely breathe a
free breath of air not stained.
It is a mistake we make, to
think we can live through the
graces of others, only to find them
slightly tarnished, and so it goes.
It is a mistake we make, to fall
upon our swords, as though the act
can justify how we have become
indulgent in our atrocities.
We are nothing if not human, fragile
in our fears, strong in our convictions,
longing to be loved yet not
smotherd so we can be free.
A freedom we cling to like our
skin, protecting yet still fragile
enough to allow us to bleed, allow
us to feel the sting of pain.
I wind north to a town I have known
in my heart and my soul, only to
realize I have forgotten myself
in the vastness of the ride.
That what I can contact and hope for
is nothing, because the heart I
have known is now gone, forever
left with out a forwarding address.
The views have changed, and with it
the reason I have come, for that reason
is a cleansing of sorts, a renewal of
my memories to be stored away.
Now is the time to be me, that which
I have always known I could become,
and leave nothing bitter behind
but the sweat thoughts of a lasting kiss.