The Ride

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

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