The Art of Forgetting

 

Rolling on New England hills

A drowsy passenger en route

Settling into torpid cadence

Eyes at rest on distant targets

 

Rescued by reluctant angels

Just before the final blow

A relict of a sinking vision

Novice to a rural spell

 

A reign of hurt made obsolete

Old fires ebbed by filthy snow

The piercing glare of winter white

Compels blue weary eyes to squint

 

Dipped in semi-sweet surrender,

Puppet strings fall limp at last

A bale of wants and woes now rests

In the belly of a day deceased

 

Birds in flight, a living symbol

Cruising through antique asylum

Hopes to one day join their freedom

Race against the blur they ride

 

Home assumes initial form

Condemn the roads that led astray

The land of all things left behind

Becomes a brand new destination