I travel, often
with the hope that the white lines
would one day realign
and finally point the way home.
The sunlight has a pulse, sometimes
that tricks the commitment to memory…
“Yes, it seems to be a beautiful day.
Why do you feel so differently?”
The child I had always wanted
never answers, never grows:
She always fades too soon —
a thin memory that leaves me
in my solitude in the light.
I catch myself in the rear-view,
The road circles around the vista
but excludes itself from the view —
a karmic delineation from acceptance.
It is another beautiful day,
and the white lines still have so far left to go.