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Poem

I've been down this road before
     I've seen all the same sights;
it's a cycle I can never escape.
Or learn from for that matter
for I am here
     Yet again.
Again and again and again
I travel down the broken
      road
and, as always, I fall
      when I trip on the cracks.
I stumble on the unlevel
      ground
skin my knees on the rocks and pebbles
and shred my hands on sand.

I trudge along
      down the road 
      again.
Is there a place to make a pitstop?
Not for many miles, the 
      dilapidated sign informs me.
It swings on a single
      screw
jilted on its side
and from where I stand, slouching
      it appears up-side-down.
The sign and I, we are siblings;
      kindred in lackluster appearance.
Different only in that
while the sign bleeds rust
      I bleed true blood.
I mourn the sign as I continue
      yet I know I'll be back.
For I've been down this road before.

As I continue on
      the wind blows dust across my view.
It coats my lungs with its 
      tiny particles,
scratching holes along the inside of my
      cheeks and on my tongue.
It kicks and swirls and bites
      stinging my eyes and forming
      a curtain to block my sight.
With the sand stinging, I am
forced to close my eyes
and grope
      blindly, in darkness
for a different road. 

Do I veer left
      or turn right?
It would aid my decision if I could see.
For all I know, I may be traveling
      around and around and around.

Around I come, yet again
down the same road.
 As I round the bend
      my kindred sign greets me,
swinging on its single screw
it welcomes me back and serves 
     to remind
that there are no pitstops
     for many miles.

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