Quantareau
09-20-2013, 06:48 PM
The mother of all roads
(U.S. route 66)
I’ve seen a lot of pilgrims pass along this honored road.
Some came with nothing more than hope, and some with too much load.
With laughter of the moment or the falling of their tears,
the rich and poor, the young and old, all running from their fears.
I’ve seen the prints their feet have made along the dusty way.
I’ve heard them curse and seen them slave and toil night and day.
Blind fate or chance will never yield to travelers in their flight,
they each must face the perils of their journey day and night.
A road of dreams and promises, an altar for the poor,
who laid upon its table all their dreams forever more.
Then prayed unto their deity in private for a sign
to justify each wistful dream, to prove it was divine.
And signs were given for the wise, in curious rhyme and rote.
But only heeded if they were the ones that Burma wrote.
Some dreams were cheap and sold to fools who would not face the truth.
Those many fools old and wise now wish in vain for youth.
A lot of traveler’s came and went as pilgrims in the night.
Some cloaked their dreams in secrets while some held them to the light.
Some came as nameless refugees to find their pot of gold,
they came and stayed, and stood in awe, and watched their dreams unfold.
Some dreams were found and built along the road so they would be,
an island for the homeless as they struggled to be free.
To stop amid the dust and heat along the winding road.
A respite to relieve them from the rigors of their load.
Those monuments of enterprise, now skeletons undone,
alone they stand at roadside making shadows in the sun.
Forgotten havens on the road, to somewhere else or bust,
decaying with their memories and blowing in dust.
The road, much like the crumbling dreams, is vanishing from sight.
Except for memories kept alive, would slip into the night.
Remembered by the travelers who, knew all the signs and codes,
now fading into twilight with the Mother Of All Roads.
(U.S. route 66)
I’ve seen a lot of pilgrims pass along this honored road.
Some came with nothing more than hope, and some with too much load.
With laughter of the moment or the falling of their tears,
the rich and poor, the young and old, all running from their fears.
I’ve seen the prints their feet have made along the dusty way.
I’ve heard them curse and seen them slave and toil night and day.
Blind fate or chance will never yield to travelers in their flight,
they each must face the perils of their journey day and night.
A road of dreams and promises, an altar for the poor,
who laid upon its table all their dreams forever more.
Then prayed unto their deity in private for a sign
to justify each wistful dream, to prove it was divine.
And signs were given for the wise, in curious rhyme and rote.
But only heeded if they were the ones that Burma wrote.
Some dreams were cheap and sold to fools who would not face the truth.
Those many fools old and wise now wish in vain for youth.
A lot of traveler’s came and went as pilgrims in the night.
Some cloaked their dreams in secrets while some held them to the light.
Some came as nameless refugees to find their pot of gold,
they came and stayed, and stood in awe, and watched their dreams unfold.
Some dreams were found and built along the road so they would be,
an island for the homeless as they struggled to be free.
To stop amid the dust and heat along the winding road.
A respite to relieve them from the rigors of their load.
Those monuments of enterprise, now skeletons undone,
alone they stand at roadside making shadows in the sun.
Forgotten havens on the road, to somewhere else or bust,
decaying with their memories and blowing in dust.
The road, much like the crumbling dreams, is vanishing from sight.
Except for memories kept alive, would slip into the night.
Remembered by the travelers who, knew all the signs and codes,
now fading into twilight with the Mother Of All Roads.