I complain about it casually,
As my routine grows uncontrollable
Into my written insanity.
The same bar
The same road trip
The same conversation
I blend in to the nine-to-five,
And the accomplishment is the
Pink slip to pride,
As I swallow antiquity for a paycheck every two weeks.
I crave solitude
I crave the roar of a great silence
I crave the waking dawn, and the soft wet dew caressing my sleepy toes as I walk in a garden that is not my own.
There is a midnight chill to the air when on the open road.
The unknown landscapes, handshakes of new friends, and unassuming smiles make the journey a simple pleasure long awaited.
Rebirth to a worn soul is the reward for all those miles.
Those towns and western mountains call out like nothing before,
As if a dinner bell for resurgence and awakening to the listless poet of travel.
The nights end all to quickly,
And an awareness for the writer discussed commences,
that dreams can only be alive for so long.