The Road Ahead

You’re sitting on a train,
with a one-way ticket in your hand;
You’re never coming back -
your cat’s dead, your mother’s gone,
your dad’s the only straw
you’re hanging on to in the big wide ocean,
and you’ve got your memories,
you’ve got your guitar
and you’ve seen that look,
that look staring aback at you
in the bathroom mirror, it said you should
get your sassy ass
on a train, not coming back
tomorrow, or even next week;
some people claim you’re running,
running away, and you say yes
yes, I’m running from boredom
yes I’m running from shadows
yes I’m running from one life
into the arms of the next,
and you’re nodding to yourself
as you’re sitting on the train
with a one-way ticket,
bag packed for two days only
while you intend to
make your way round the sun.

And as your way’s unfolding
bit by bit, moment by moment
your head is blank, as is your page
in front of you: no instructions, no help,
no guidance, you’re just riding
riding the wave of uncertainty
but for the first time in your life
you’ve never been so sure as to where
you’re headed at.

You can hear the raindrops
sizzling on the roof
of your train-ride, easily
they adapt to the rhythm of your tears
streaming down your face,
but you’re not crying because of
all you do is cry with and for
and the earth still turns
everyday as it’s done for years
and years before you were done
with this life that’s yours,
finally yours, but you’ve been
unsure about your next steps;
like a fawn, a baby-lion
you swaggered through the minutes
and the people, the boys you meet
look down at you from their high horses,
“knights in shining armours”
is the most overrated,
hurl-evoking phrase of
the past six centuries,
now get down from that high horse,
little sister, you don’t need
that saddle to be in,
that horse to enter the room in on,
no false modesty about
semantics, it’s all for frantics.

And, as you’re way’s unfolding,
easily swayed by one glimpse,
easily betrayed by sweet lies,
the laughter in your ears is fading
the smile upon other’s lips is
tasting sour milk and rotten eggs,
so you’re sitting on that train
satisfied by how your history
has unfold, the story has been told.

And the social bond
you’ve held tight for decades
is slipping through your hand,
soon it’ll be gone, dragged
through the mud in your inner eye,
but as you pick up your guitar
and start strumming a tune
while the rhythm of the train
gives you the beat to your luck,
your vision has never been this clear,
and the road ahead is shimmering dear.

7/17/2010