End of the Road



The sickly yellows suns that line the motorway are long behind us

busy white eyes of oncoming traffic a faded glow on retinas

replaced with a twisted country lane and hanging stars


dark corners

blind rises

tree covered falls


traversed without a word being spoken

now the rhythm of a radio is cut silent to static for the






of a tired engine cooling itself to sleep

no more path

no more smoothed surface

no more looking forward

for us there is only what has gone before

and a black uninviting void


fear filled



lying across the Irish sea

so still as if it was not there in the darkness at all

so still

still we don’t speak

and dare not turn the key

because we know this is end of the road


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