West to East. Yorktown Beckons

Going off the rails,
Whistles doing little to avoid the crash
Cars slamming together,
This is impossible,
The waiting,
The unknowing,
The secrecy,
And the impending crisis.

What do we do,
The crash will surely come
And all I can think to do
Is run.
Get away, figure things out,
Breathing away from the crowds
On some ignoble quest of discovery.

That’s what I’ve got,
That and time,
The space between the first and last days
That’s got to be filled
That has air,
The air letting me breath
As I run and ride,
As I find out what I am made of.

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