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.