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.