The only road is a lonely road.
Ruts, driven into the cracked asphalt by many wheels, beg the question:
How many have been here, and seen the fleeting second when sunlight
makes the grime on the windshield beautiful?
Capitalists didn’t care about the sunset until they realized they could own it—
Now they press it into glass like a dead butterfly and show it to the world,
Draining its integrity to fuel their character.
Both are long entombed by now, beneath a layer of fairy dust,
but wisdom dreams of waking when those illusory bars fall across their greedy eyes,
and maybe it will; poets are an endangered essence, but they live on
behind the grim glint of every selfish soul.
The lonely road is the only road
on which true value can be found;
the muddy puddles on the ground that once were pearly snowbanks
turn to gold, and time is torn apart,
woven back into a glorious moment when beauty shines over the hills
and through the clouds; when the heart cries that heaven,
heaven is a destination, not in space
but in time.