Wearily, we drive, the unworthy.
Our highway lit in rhythm.
A regular beat of orange and black.
Departed, we are not there yet.
Unarrived, at conversation, at optimism.
Unarrived at wonder and at hope.
Covering the many miles between were and will be,
We are patient. Patient until we are absent.
Stop. Set me down here.
I am not content to wait as lights pass me.
There is not enough of life upon this road.
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