seraphemera (seraphemera) wrote,

out somewhen on a highway
in an era throughout which communication crosses were the norm
milestones were just that: of stone
graves to the places alive
only to be passed through
dying as the big cities renamed and realigned with the golden stars

in travel
time flickers past and present
linear motion ceases to run waterfall
and what is shoehorned into a year of life
breathes with release
in the scribblings of a day or two
as if even when following the serving suggestions
of seventy miles an hour
the arteries of america are launching pads to the infinity of relativity

some of what is spoke be illusion
in the debate that the day has not ended
until to bed on pillow rest head
midnight the delineation
to those spun on the hands of time -
to the wanderer even the sun
willingly holds off for momentaries
when nightfall continuation is requested
with the proper authority

this is the only magic realism conjurable
here in the western lands
when satellites transpose roads
and global positioning systems
(while poetic in name)
keep us too encased in found
and afraid of the consequence of lost

if this is true, then our collective cartography
is to draw a map to the hidden places where mystery remains
not shrouded as such
but to landmark the places where
possibility still stretches its wings
and breathes a distilling fire
even if only to remind us
that the sun sets in the west
and time need not be any more accurate
than even an untrained eye toward the sky
might portend

this too shall we do:
transpose what we see
into a key of modernity
without nostalgic grace
for the era that has long passed
but add a flourish
of fantasy
in the choired harmony
of how each of us sees
the changing of the landscape
from that which is held on to for so long
it is only at death that change may do us part
from the past

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