Adventure: Driving South


Storm clouds. Heavy, rolling thunder and

standing pools near standing rock or the like.

One, two, three, four, five, six times the

baldy fourteeners rebelling out the landscape.

Clear light butted by fringes of wispy vastness

that only this region can define.

Help me figure this out. Help me find a way to

return and fully define the role that lurks near

the realm of pure truth. No way to get away.

From this. This place, this feel, this space and

this nothingness. At times I wish I never knew.

Take the secret back. Jettison me. Quit me.

The Western Front. All’s quiet.

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