Driving all night
Toward the face of death
That shines
Like a beacon
In my mind,
I point the vehicle
In line and move
Forward, ever forward,
but always back,
Move on mechanically to
The moment
When death will
Be seen as the final
Null act and
The last image
In that human place of going
And coming
At the end of the road,
Where the drive will stop
And the engine will cool.
So I drive through
The headlight space
Of thoughts on repeat;
And the flicker of
The lines on the road
Becomes the
Interval that defines
The limits of time,
And the boundary
Of this existence,
As I look ahead
And glance behind.
This is the art
Of driving
As I head north
To see an end
And to embrace
And cry in
The soft light
Of grief’s quiet fall
That waits there
For me to come,
Waits there for
The journey’s
Dreadful end,
Waits there
For the cold
and dull ache
Of separation
And the pondering
About why
I came at all.
2/5/2016