This road, faded grey and weather-beaten, hard, like long-settled volcanic regurgitation, pours hot over the countryside. It marks an end of every green Elysium, a border beyond which the living cannot pass.
This expanse of rock and scars, sewed up like Frankenstein's monster, as thin as a heartbeat, but drawn out into the vast horizon, chunks at the edges, ruffles like a wind-tossed scarf, flakes, cracks, secedes from its union, and lies in rubble to signify its state.
This artery, enamored with rubber, carries a consistent flow of traffic converging, in time, with its destination. We use it as one might a slave, indifferently, as we press our tires to its face.
This concrete fabric stitched up with miles of yellow and white thread, stretches into the distance until it melts into the sky. Behind me, it ventures from places I've been, merging, eventually, with places I'm going. Of course, it has its splits and jogs, divergences and tributaries, and can seem to lead awry or roundabout, but ultimately it takes me where I want to go.