No Signs

Tell me it's true
this road,
this one,
will arrive on time
to where high, lazy fly balls
drift to the warning track and
die happily in the
arms of jealous lovers,
our happily kept
appointments.

Motion far ahead
catches my eye.
It's soundless,
that far away movement,
it draws and shuffles
my feet in fits
of anti-climactic sprints that
whimper to heavy sighs,
pauses to stop and look
around to measure and define
my place.

Any happy markers
willing to oblige
the gazing questions,
a pilgrim for a sign
screaming continue
or turn here.
For the days picked up
by the astral wind
have blown from
front to back and
lie like sediment
in the ancient stratum.

It's unfamiliar
where I stand,
the vista spinning
through me,
though I've breathed
the dust of this trail
for the life of an
ephemeral eternity.
Forever wants to die
when the hand that guides
slips back into the sky,
covered by escorting clouds.

This open road has become the sign that directs.


©Eusebeia Philos 2013