Egress/Regress

Road Song 2, part b

Once again, questioning my motives.
Having to ask the dreaded question: what boundaries am I crossing?
There are always unspoken rules. There is nothing forbidden, but...
There are things that are, as she said, frowned upon.
In these waters, thinking is discouraged, but wondering embraced.
I just think you talk too much.
A word of advice:
Let’s turn all your lampposts into crouching figures, and turn your all your trees into challenges.
We’ll use this fire to light your page! And use this screw to turn your heart!
Instead a falling branch became a phantom and I put a star out on the pavement.
The night became a fortress which became a woman, and when I looked she laughed.
We smilingly took advantage of streetlights with fires in our mouths.
We were not without a tinge of fear, though her eyes, the size of sunbeams, never said a word.
We ran through artificial thunderstorms, we trampled unknown grass, apologizing for the crudity of our handwriting.
I proceeded to get lost in the town of my birth, and feel the better for it.
It doesn’t matter much if I found what I was looking for. I had escaped those few extraneous answers that had caught me.
All that time I thought I had caught them.
The Big Dipper was glad; I was walking North.
Such was the evidence of my drowning– a few fenceposts, and bugs landing on my shoulder.
Wrong turns are rarely wrong, they are merely poorly timed. Regardless, I may have to run home in the lightning. Maybe the clouds of the night sky are drawn to the smell of blood. Written in the dark, this is the way things are. Crickets marginally agree, hanging from the edge of my glasses like ribbons I forgot.

I empathize deeply with heat lightning. You need to find some word, some color, some light to express so much intensity. There is always the sound of a pebble kicked down the road to fall back on. So check the gate, you might as well, though I don’t know how much of a difference it makes if there’s nobody there. Headlights explain the darkness, but in poorly written layman’s terms. The drunks soar by on VCR directions, explanations of a thousand dials. From this distance it’s hard to tell if anyone’s approaching. The trees here smell like sweet young women wearing just a little bit too much perfume. I am unsure of the way back, but I not concerned. At a fork in the road, I feel a vague sense of familiarity, although there may be echos from another time that we got lost.

I have walked face-first into these cobwebs before.