we’re dragging our shells across asphalt,
turtle-crossing the world.
in the impulse of nature we’re caught,
across dark crusts we’re hurled.
we hope to reach the double golden bars,
sunsets’ cheaply painted lines-
that gleam of hope between the cars,
the finish line that blinds.
a shattered shell marks suicide-
the journey’s nothing less,
but the creeping hastens the divide
between the cursed and blessed.
we travel alone in our rough-aged skin.
we strain our bones to cross the bars.
we grasp the gold only to begin
the treadmill journey that is ours.
beeseeker
“sunset’s cheaply painted lines”
Yes, perhaps we do.
This one has me thinking – for which, thanks.