The wheel turns the machine,
and the journey back home begins.
Moist evenings,
softly lit by the white of the moon,
that turns grey on the way to us.
Warm lights from tall posts,
reach us beguilingly,
But not all yellow is the Sun.
Camaraderie is preceded by a burst of light,
growing stronger as distances are bridged;
and for a brief moment in the now,
the headlights illuminate the same way together.
Before one leaves,
leaving behind a red afterglow.
Along the path are confines,
for machines, without confines,
wreak havoc on the nature that built them.
A string of equidistant twinkling lights,
Separate the boundless, raw woods,
from the smooth tar.
Both dark,
but differing in dimensions offered.
These twinkling lights enamor me,
like horizontal starscapes.
True stars are beyond my vision,
and these, twinkle with more certainty.
Both leading me home.
If I try to perceive the present,
focusing vision at the single occurrence of now,
the twinkle merges into a continuous line;
Points of light,
conjoined by a linear, hazed, brightness.
If not,
the eyes dart back and forth,
trying to keep up with the speed of the journey;
restless, anxious;
lest few be missed out.
This continuous linear luminescence,
frequently breaks into an odd pause;
but light framed by darkness,
embeds itself in the vision of the seer,
where the hued afterglow remains the guiding light.
And this game of light and pause,
keeps me company till this journey ends,
for when I reach the soft grey,
my vision will extend to the twinkling stars.
