This poem is about the road. The road has been on my mind quite a lot lately. Partly, I think, because of my upcoming odyssey. But also because the concept of the open road plays an important role both in American history and in the world of art. How many stories, poems, and movies are centered around the road? It is loved and hated with seemingly equal passion, it goes up and down, it always comes back around, it is the road.



The wandering poet is a poet with a home,

the road alone brings his heart to peace,

a restless peace, but peace nonetheless,

a state that causes repression to cease.


The road is cursed as the grounds of vagabonds,

a place for rabble, rebels, and lost souls,

dirt in which to wallow, filth to swallow,

the way for the unstable, a place for the hollow.


But in this life, the road is king,

it controls the masses, brings them in,

a guide for dreamers, the door for seekers,

the bed of lovers, a trail of tears.

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