Memory by Numbers

December is on a Monday this year

The long drive home through the sickles, and frozen tundras of the midday rift.

Trips around the sun coming and going as we are propelled violently towards death.

Barricades from the past extend lifelines that are sparce and thin across receding hairlines and down chutes too narrow.

The narrow box meant from short sights, and silver spoons breaks on the open road hyper realism splashed together with daymares of shooting sprees, and feral children leaderless and entitled against the future skylines. 

Fades to black as the corner turns and the rearview smudges from our breathe.

Love lost against the tapestry of thyme, and sweaty palms grip the reigns of life's demands as we stare at the asphalt coming.

Winter solstice wears our heavy hearts like a badge of honor with mixed context as the roaring years of decline knocks in a steady rhythm alone and repetitious the only road musicals we need know.

Folded napkin love letters flutter through the vacuum of the long ride littering our open hearts on the open road.

Fading up and remembering nothing as the road rips their throats whispering rites, and might the basis of rank, file, and generational divides.