Maps of Our Minds

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. 
But I, 
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 smooth, 
Some bumpy, 
Some patterned, 
Some patterned poorly. 


Along the road are
    Strategically-placed gas stations
    in unknown locations--
        Sometimes you catch them 
        before you hit empty 
        and
        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?
How do
the dark
and
the light 
slice through 
all the dimensions
in every direction
of the maps of our minds?


Sometimes I remember the future
and
Place my dreams among the past.