Road Maps Poem by Kevin Patrick

Drowning myself on burned rubies at crossroads
Im the gingerbread man with the fork at my throat
gang pressed to roam dead zones of Rubicons
on figure eight opals and ghost autobahns
Still your fortune cookie came through
with a scholarship
and membership golf course
And Once in a while
a taxidermist calls
to offer you the remnants of a human soul
You listen,
as His voice like a spade tries digging its way
into your remorseless stalagmite
But Only the Lordship of Bronze
and stiffness of Marble
can ever really penetrate the glass of your iron maiden
Still you can laugh in the glade
without doubt in the shade
You can spin around and never get tipsy
While I walk straight and wander like a gypsy
Its just the play, like that
I guess its just our born road maps