A tongue of black
Licks an endless path through a void of nature
Save for occasional dilapidated towns
And endless electrifying bird tightropes.
The highway drives on, bored.
Chilly air ruffles sleepy trees.
Clouds make continents in
Walls of sordid slate loom pretentiously
Over damp ditches.
Unpalatable marshmallows of hay stare blankly
In pointless solidarity.
Yet the highway drives on, unimpressed.
Pinched between two mountains,
The tongue licks on.
Fiery trees cascade their radiant cinders down,
Dancing in the cool air,
Indistinguishable from the cars
That turn them into golden, damp dust.
The ashes of life.
The highway drives on.
It’s late for a meeting.