Pull of All Our Pounds – Old Journals

Car after car, unending, road bending,
engines adjust and then descending,
into distances no one can know.
Not even the eyes that drive do.
Not enough to stop the car.
So they can not know where they are.
Because they would. Stop.
Press the pedals of unfeeling ground.
An ever-reeling mound.
The pull of all our pounds.
Clutching everything around and turning it.
Soft enough we can not feel, like a child,
rocked to sleep instead of awake.
A world that has no brakes,
and the gas pedal stuck, unmoving.

Never losing what is not in some opposite way regained.

Car after car whips by as fast the one before,
ignorant just the same. Each one equally insane.
For no matter the direction they are headed,
each one believes they are in the right lane.

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