Beside a highway,
Between strip malls
And railway tracks,
It’s sometimes strange
Where what’s left of us
Ends up,
Not that it really matters
For some trains of thought
Say we’re long gone,
But for those who come
Picking moss from the markers
Wondering about our lives,
Do they ever consciously
Realize how short
The ride really is.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
From “Falling” www.StrangersAndPoetry.com
10:54 AM December 31, 2012