Darken my doorstep, threaten my safety, the silent-sad obscurity I have observed within wickedly wondering wanton moments. Left here in the throes of touching tormented timelessness, a harsh bitter, howling winter wind, moaning memories across the open plains, wildly whispering the echoing of my mind's landscape.
My heart is heavy and my mind is overloaded, like a truck tilting its way down the highway. The truck is weighed down by questions, the wherefore's and the why's, with each crack, each bump in the pavement there are some that inevitably spill over the sides, bouncing aimlessly off the ground, lonely, aching and without making a sound.
People are the traffic of life, and when they are taken off of the road there is an eerie enduring swift silence that stills the surrounding landscape with a barren and blackened longing.
The wheels that crossed the pavement, so steadily, so consistently; suddenly; are so missed, leaving the highway so lost, dazed and confused, as if the love it has always shown for the traffic was somehow without purpose or in vain. In the absence of disturbed dust there is now only the tears, and the rain.
The picture is gloomy-grey; grief, grief, grief, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Bright white lines down the center of the highway of life, standing there, alone, leading emptiness sorrowfully through the aggravated, angry agonizing air. All is quiet, quite, quiet, and stretching out along the highway of my life, as far as I can see, are questions, smashed-slain, strewn exploding on contact with the ice cold, frigidly-frozen freeway.
© 1996 A.J. Mahari
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