(C) R.L.K.
It has to begin somewhere;
perhaps in a motel room with the window open,
sunup, wisps of mists outside, trees swaying in the wind.
You hear an old song on an old radio -
“Can’t help but wonder where I’m bound” -
and you do, even now you do.
Days, months, years have passed,
melody after melody has faded into a distant echo,
and still you wonder.
So many roads: the long and winding
road, the road to the interior,
the road that has no name.
"All that road rolling and all those
people dreaming in the immensity of it.”
And always, the road not taken.
Can’t help but wonder, though, if
at the end all roads merge into one:
the road that you leads you home.
