I have seen in magazines
The moon under a microscope,
Small pitted
by the impacts of dust,
Like tiny waves on an ancient beach,
Across a distant sea,
This pummeling
And erosion,
A lunar island in a major ocean.
Sometimes my spirit yearns to fly,
Sometimes I see the angels
die
And the high bring down the low.
Then what is the real impact of dust,
So very numerous?
And what value may we find
In abundant obsolescence?
I see the open road
and become it,
Shaking the dust up as I go.
And the dusty breeze
that sweeps along
Is what I ride
without direction.
Just let it go,
And go as the wind goes,
Without a limit
And all unending.
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