Do we stretch out long highways
grey, and white, toward deep blue mountains?
Maybe we are chaotic city streets-
right angles and hard yellow curbs with
blind alleys.
Perhaps miles of concrete steps,
stretching upward toward doors of commerce
progress seeking progress
Will our lives instead be remembered for the fields we traveled?
Who will record the forests we wandered in, the rivers we crossed-
black cold with deep swirls; whirlpools?
Can we then fade into a crimson horizon,
here one moment- then gone in gathering darkness or
Do we
like time's children,
come also at last to the silent shadowlands?
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thanks to Byzantine for the title