Roads.

I suppose blog poetry is a little self-indulgent, but then again, I'm a solipsistic songwriter and artistic self-indulgence is one of my (dubious?) virtues. Plus, you know, I fancy myself a writer, and stuff. Consider me disclaimed.

I find myself
thinking about roads
curves grazing the shoulders of hillocks
sliding to the brink of horizon
and diving recklessly beyond.

I find myself
thirsting for mile markers
speeding past, numbers climbing
blurring reminders of choices
and regrets: obscured history.

I find myself
dreaming of albatrosses
white wings arching, slicing updrafts
climbing to the very ends of crimson ribbons
anchoring our joined ankles.

I find myself
rushing onward alone
footsteps pounding faster, louder
each stride drawing taut
the binding of what never leaves.

I find myself
swallowing against fear,
echo of foot against pavement
shaking the rhythm of flight
wings faltering.

I find myself
staring into illusion:
the end of the road, a mirror,
bird's black eyes reflected, silently
hoping there's a chance

I find myself.