On our way to Rochester for the summer.
We camped along the cold, dark river.
She sits by the water, praying and muttering.
Spring is starting to green the cold and dead.
We made it through another winter by the sea.
Fire and warmth, human touch, truest prayers.
A priestess will bless us, sanctify our dreams.
Rochester, where the angels dwell in caves.
Our motorbike will make it there once more.
The cold, dark river is answering her curses.
Two more days ride to the ancient forests.
That we’ll make it together, prayer answered.
All that can be hoped for in these winters.
Johanna is riding shotgun,
in charge of changing tapes
and reading the map to me.
Telling me how the wind blows.
Up to Rochester, to the border.
The snow will dampen the scent.
The night will give rest to us, for a season.
Spring means dodging hellhounds.
Right now, our de facto song plays.
A vampire gets some poet boy high.
Damnation makes for stirring words.
I hold her hand. She smiles. Evening.
You can never outrun these demons.
Find solace in motion and music, touch.
We’ll make love in a roadside motel room.
But night will only give rest for a season.
Mach 1 Mustang up the two lane highway, heading north.
Holding on to the hope of her at my side for all it’s worth.
New England is golden and bleeding red in Autumn,
the bleeding out of the green as the leaves fall in the rain.
How much farther can I go before all the hope is lost.
The sun is dim and a watered down golden hue.
The cold is in the air, biting my skin, when I sleep
on the side of the highway, my jacket thin and useless.
I’ll lose fuel before Rochester I know, wear down my shoes.
Will she be there when I come walking in like a living ghost?
It’s all spread into darkness and loss and a loss at what to do.
She was in Rochester when the lights when out and hope faded.
Is she still there? I push the car harder and harder to New York.
I’ve got to find her again, I’ve got to have her at my side in Winter.
I’m walking dead, a breathing ghost, if she’s not there, waiting for me.