This Highway

mumbling words

as the bus bumps

along the distresses

of this highway of notions,

of emotions, I have kept

ingrained within the coal tar

over which I drive the roller

of my communication, of things,

I tell you from the blanket

of night, breathing stories

not of stars, but of their images

that glint in the mud pond of life.

A little too urgent now and then,

I may have you see

the ills of my voice, but

what can I do, when

my truths are hollowed out,

distresses formed along this road,

where you don’t know, but

I let you know everything


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