Rolling on New England hills
A drowsy passenger en route
Settling into torpid cadence
Eyes at rest on distant targets
Rescued by reluctant angels
Just before the final blow
A relict of a sinking vision
Novice to a rural spell
A reign of hurt made obsolete
Old fires ebbed by filthy snow
The piercing glare of winter white
Compels blue weary eyes to squint
Dipped in semi-sweet surrender,
Puppet strings fall limp at last
A bale of wants and woes now rests
In the belly of a day deceased
Birds in flight, a living symbol
Cruising through antique asylum
Hopes to one day join their freedom
Race against the blur they ride
Home assumes initial form
Condemn the roads that led astray
The land of all things left behind
Becomes a brand new destination
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