I

We endured
that road like junkies,
homeless
emaciated
and hungry,
desperate
for the healing
the road had promised to provide.

We craved
body and soul
the blood in the land
and the salt in the sea
as if seduced
by a promise,
then we destroyed
and created
what was raised from the earth.

We thieved
and maneuvered our wares
like Phoenicians
at market in Tripoli;
we invested
in illusion,
worked it into our systems
like the dreams of fatherless children;
and we orgied,
orgied in barrels of fermenting wine,
orgied in blackberries, muscle shells, and the sands of time,
orgied to escape
the prison of our skins.


II

In time, we became adept
at betrayal.

Again
and
again,
like supplicants
bathed in blood,
we sacrificed
our offerings
to the Gods of Prospect Road,
yet
they remained
desperate
for the healing
the road had promised to provide.

We consulted
the high priests,
the wise
and ancient
dealers,
and learned
with reverance
that they were alot like us:
desperate
for the healing
the road had promised to provide.

We fought
for the birth of our emergent selves
and like a harvest
of winter wheat,
we were winnowed
in the winds of generations:
our husks lie broken
on the shores of Prospect Road.

We loved
like angels
and gave it our all,
we received nothing
and everything
from the road;
we carry it
each of us
like the smoldering remains
of a youth lived.

And when
the wind blows
across the granite
along those shores,
placed there as if by gods,
the debris
along Prospect Road
swirls
and rises aloft
into
grey
memory,
as if
desperate
for the healing
the road had promised to provide.