Down This Road Before

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.