young thoroughfare

403Counting down the summer days,
and the miles, atlas-bound,
and the hair, greying on your head.
So desperate in these playground ruins,
 a past illusion would even be quite enough
to full the heartache passages, robbed of once-life.
We’re left roadbound, yet trapped at home,
Accepting lies as truth,
desperate,
wandering,
waiting,
and doing the things we feel like we must do.

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