In her hands, a book enfolded.
She spread its wings
to look at its feathers
and only saw that burdened ballad
of the many things
to which we have no answers:
Why do such things happen?

As the illustrated tale began,
the engine ignited,
the road was read
and the white lane lines foreran.
Scenes looked arid.
And not knowing where this lead:
Way leads onto way,
in stone--nothing was written.

Trees teemed both sides of the passageway,
polar crippled their beauty.
Sediment covered the asphalt.
Dull colors--Gray. Gray. Gray.
Headlights burning brightly,
the machine came to a sudden halt.
Surprises are always discovered,
but mostly the cruel ones are destine.

To continue is up to the engine.
To decide to move on,
regardless of the hardships,
and take our paths with caution.
With that path withdrawn--
where do we take our road trips?
What will occur next--
in just another grief-stricken fiction?

Had made the right choice, or not--
the engine continued
on dead man’s curve.
Decisions rendered quite without thought,
readers previewed,
before the driver was even allowed to observe.
The turn too sharp--
for the driver, no ending was chosen.

In her hands, a book enfolded.
She spread its wings
to look at its feathers
and only saw that burdened ballad
of the many things
to which we have no answers:
Why did my bird fly away
before I was driven?