Only Fog and Ghosts

It’s a cold April morning,

And the open road, only loops around forever.

Forever and forever,

Back to the things I cannot escape.

It’s late April, and there are miracles it’s too late to know.

I have no names to speak, and the sacred music plays

As I drive this Sisyphian route, endlessly,

Make true what I am too late to know.

“Abide With Me”, but I am not a home or brother.

Something was wrong in me, that I could not be a miracle like her.

Miracle of light in a cold morning, early Saturday at a protestant church,

With only fog and ghosts.

The end of the circuit is not the end of the line,

I have been on this road since time out of mind.

The serpent is coiled around my brain, it’s long tail my spinal column,

And I don’t know how to eradicate him, without loss of self.

The engine idles, the music plays on,

The miracle breaks open the dark clouds with sunlight.