The Empty Road

The empty road punctuated

By the bluster of a busted

Muffler. A dark night sped

Through with naught but a

Pale fingernail to light

The way.

We chat non committingly,

meaningless words used to

fill mouths, not ears. Ignoring

the absence of that just

accustomed too sound to forge

ahead.

Tradition holding sway.

keep it on the inside the

unspoken mantra silently

uttered as we've grown to

see the truth as irrelevant in

the face of appearances.

The dark silhouetted oaks

and pines a grand jury

passing its unwavering

justice. The moon a

purveyor of judgment that

looks down in consternation

at the weak route we take

to keep up the appearance.

An empty mansion that

exudes success but hides

the poison run rampant for

generations. A weakening

of the foundation that's leaked

into every bent nail and board

in the house.

But still we chat. Both

knowing the other knows,

but unwilling to choose the

right words. Rather words of

ash that settle and stain us deeper

and deeper. Unaware of the sentence

we had attained.

Unaware by a choice.

So home we go, to our

individual rooms and

individual thoughts.

Back to avoiding each other.

Back to acting the part.

Back to keeping it on the inside.