The Road

The road buckles
like an outstretched arm
at the point of pain,
hauling the horizon closer.
Your path is written
on the bulging surface,
a ripe, golden vein.
Above, in the aurora,
the constellations tighten.
You slow your pace,
drinking in the air.
Something bubbles upwards
from your heart,
the leaves of your brain
and your strands of hair
shiver up and start,
your hands clench,
your eyes whiten.

The light drains out
of everything around
and pours silently
between your white knuckles.
From your fists
it drips onto the ground
making silver puddles.
The landscape falls gently
away from your eyes,
but the road still twists
from the edge of reach
into the back of your mind.
It tells you things,
terrifying things
that glisten even in the dark,
in a voice so beautiful
that you laugh as you go blind.