If These Roads Could Speak

If these roads could speak,
they would moan for the desperation
and wince at the pain I shed as I walk.

Out where the asphalt turns to dirt,
I stumble along, and the howls tear
from my bruised heart.

The sun and wind
bleach and scrape
the conjured beast of pain,

Subduing it, soothing it,
holding it in kind, airy hands,
leaching out the anger and hurt.

Walking alone
with a buffer of space and time,
what a privilege, a freedom

To yowl and grieve without restraint,
without dulling the excruciating edge of hurt,
no one to frighten with intensity
or think me crazy.

And finally, to realize that
the raw emotion roaring out,
clears a space where this tiny, warm creature
can curl up, safe in the knowledge

That crashing waves of despair,
hot wrath,
hollow howls of abandonment,

Once unleashed,
can never be quite the fearsome
monsters they once were.

Safe in this golden space,
this small, innocent soul can
slowly, languidly and unstoppably

begin to stretch its wings,
unfurling and gathering strength
until they are strong enough to fly.