October 30, 2014

Century


We start off at sunrise,
everyone moving
at his own speed,
some faster,
some slower,
all of us looking
much the same.

The road flows
like a stream
beneath us.
We count every mile
as our own,
riding far out
into silence,
leaving no trace
of where we've gone.

After more than
a hundred miles,
we finally return;
through the desert
and back again,
none of us now
looks the same.

Our starting point
has been abandoned,
no one in town
recalls our names;
we've become 
perfect strangers,
remembered only
in months and years,
recorded upon
chiseled stone.