They give you no maps,
only the vaguest of directions.
“Somewhere that-a-way,” they say,
snickering under their tattered breaths
at your considerable confusion.
So on and on and on you go,
shoe leather, tires, hair wearing thin,
debts and pounds accumulating,
‘til finally you’re barefoot, sunburned,
the odometer’s broken,
but you know no life but motion
so on and on and on you go,
to the valley of dry, brittle bones.
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