GPS says you will arrive at your destination

through a glass, darkly.

Featured images bounce off retired retinas,

begging for tags.

Catagorically, the excerpt from my status update

will change when my free will

withers, and I’ll share my location

with editor, only.

Classic.

Publish that.

You know the path,

preview the draft,

see all the strangers

spring up, second act.

Even the in-fighting among my own ancestral desires

to take flight

flare up

and it takes every ounce of onomatopoeia in me

to stay on the road.

Don’t doze off now.

The signs say Wrong Way

but don’t turn around.