Travel Maps

Minutes blend into hours, into days
Before I know it, a month has gone by
I do not know what I’m waiting for, but I suspect that the restlessness in my cells signal not the want for a beginning, but for an end.
An end to this flat, endless stretch of road. An end to this nothingness, this lack of will, of purpose, of want.
An end to this infinite limerick of trudging on
To I know not where
It just goes on and on and I with it travel on.

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