The Last Ride

Edges of reality stretch along the road

from towns for tears and prisons

towards the places not on any map.

 

Vivid in the mind as a collage of blurs

seen in a haze as home never been.

Heart holds onto the frail sanity

by silencing the questions

over why the street is so bumpy

and never has any exits

to anywhere that isn’t

an amusement park of vaporous thrills

or a parking lot for hearse that are occupied.

 

A glance upon the terrain

where fences bar the freedom

sees the scarecrows

placed their as the trolls of discrimination.

 

Vagabond heart feels the tremors inside

from the quakes in restlessness

to crave a home from this traveling,

somewhere beyond the idle emptiness.

 

Suited with a nomad cloth,

leather made from scars,

finally at peace over this journey

for you can’t find paradise

from looking in a rear view mirror.

 

Where time and thought

wrap around the mind,

the past becomes a post card

and tomorrow the destination

hoped will match the dream.