Some people like to think that life
is a one-way road to the grave,
Just a first-class ticket
to eternity among the worms.
I don’t really blame them.
In my longing and searching nature,
Without an idea of God within
or heaven above,
Like to think of life
as a collection of intersecting,
winding country roads
out in the hinterlands of Idaho,
A finite cobblestone path
in every imaginable variation;
Some patterned poorly.
Along the road are
Strategically-placed gas stations
in unknown locations--
Sometimes you catch them
before you hit empty
sometimes you get stuck in one place,
And it takes all your strength,
All your faith,
To drag your weight
to the oil pumps of hope.
On the road
you can’t help but notice
the abandoned vehicles,
Covered in rust,
Fractured and scarred;
Some stare at the crash
longer than they should.
Some days conditions are pleasant,
Others are riddled with storms
of on and off fog,
Baseballs of hale looking for your skull,
Ice lining the edges of the road,
Smoking mirages that don’t need heat.
Sometimes the road seems hopeless,
But how we handle the weather determines our fate.
As I’ve traveled these trails,
I’ve come to believe
that this has all happened before,
And the direction to clarity
lives deep within our minds,
Sending signals and feelings down our spines
when danger creeps closer,
But it’s all out of order,
As our thoughts
are never fixed
to a point
on a line.
How often do we remember the future?
How many dreams have I placed among the past?
all the dimensions
in every direction
of the maps of our minds?
Sometimes I remember the future
Place my dreams among the past.