Will o'the Wisps...

I have to cease frequenting the highway,
With its fluorescent flaming road intercepts.
Accidents have happened, along those arcs
Skidding off the highway, skidding off the way…
And then the headlights shatter into shards,
Light stands politely beside a wraithlike marsh…
But all of that, the myth--- it glows defiant in the past,
Like the light in your eyes, through the vodka mist.
I have stopped frequenting these road intercepts
That hungrily feed the withering divide in my head,
The storm of hypocrisy, then the tears of contempt,
I bargained myself for myself, and my succint race

Have already met with the stymied green blaze

Of the self I'm not when I stare into the quicksilver surface
Of the Lake, with the self I am through the vodka mist.

But quicksilver is fatal, or so I have heard…
Highways kill without the flaming intercepts…
Yet I crave to touch that inverted image of mine…
To stagger in arcs on spotless, asphalt highways.

I am not afraid, its still something like me.

I am not afraid to pursue the green beam...
Because….
I am aroused without coffee today…
Because…
I am liked by people I have failed…
Because…
I have moulded something perfect…
Because…
I am nobody when I am divided…
Because…
I have long left the quicksilver highway…

Because...

I am on the jagged, edge of incomplete highway...