The Art of Road Trips in the Rain

Here for a moment,

Then gone when eyes are opened,

I can’t help but feel a pang of sorrow

Knowing I won’t ever see that landscape again.

I won’t ever be back in a place

Where EVERYTHING was perfectly untouched

Next time I return, if ever,

So much will have changed.

Trees will have grown.

Grass will have died.

Leaves will have fallen.

Life will have continued.

But if I had tumbled out of my shelter

And run off to explore,

Would I have grown old with it?

Could I escape the ferocity of a concrete jungle?

Yet even now I know that I cannot.

There is too much to do,

Too many to leave behind,

Too much lost.

Even with that thought,

My sorrow returns.

There is nothing preventing me from leaving,

Yet so much holds me back.

A seat belt, yes,

But my mind finds family,

A place where everyone loves you.

This can’t be found out there.

So I sit back and sigh,

And turn to gaze at the leather in front of me.

Still I can’t help but look out

And sorrow turns to envy.

How I long to travel out into that landscape.

How I want to escape my invisible bonds.

How I wish the water pouring down

Would wash me into the unknown.

To explore, to grow old,

To escape, to be reborn.

So I dream of escaping the pavement

And getting swallowed by a landscape.

Being lost in the green.

Running until I vanish into the rainstorm.

Why, oh why,

Can I not escape?