It feels like the old days,
The picnic-table-sitting highway to hell,
The alone days of unstructured ways,
The brutal days of self-sacrifice.

‘Time is naught but a beacon
Of enslavement.’

It feels like a sick play,
This sorrow-of-self highway to hell,
The lonely days of unmanageable grays,
The savage days of self-aberration.

‘Time is caught by her beacon
Of enslavement.’

It feels like eternity’s maze,
That shifting-while-you-were-missing highway to hell,
The solo days of unmitigated haze,
The piquant days of self-absorption.

Only, worse.

‘Time is fraught by sad beacons
Of enslavement.’

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 5/17/05