Mina Road

Blinding blinds that I can't see through. As I stare, as I wonder, all that I can think is what the hell's out there. Not knowing, not caring, who or what's around the corner, I step into my world, a saying so hard to believe, but o so true. Like stepping off a cliff or falling off the edge, looking into the future, which seems so distant but knowing it's so close. A ghastly figure arises with each morning and by nightfall dissapears. Alone in a lone row of trees, I know for a moment, what our destiny will be, but with a tempermental wind it flutters away like dried winters leaves, which are so out of place, like me on a hot summer day in a cold state of mind. I shutter just to think of them gone. The trucks pass just like the scorching hot days of summer, precious cargo, a mass grave going 35, on a lonely dirt road, headed for their manifest destiny. They thought the west was wild and wonderful. It is neither, it is dying, just like our spirits a little more every day. Every life that is lost should be as important as your own. Someday soon someone may realize how important this love really is, and then maybe the life of that torchered dirt road will be sustained, until then our voices will never agree with one or another. Until then . . .

©by Annastasia Hotaling, 2000