To leave this land,

to travel south, to escape the green,

the atmosphere of depression,

and the burden of survival,

 

Long and straight,

black asphalt lines,

they mesmerise and dizzy,

through fields of white,

 

as fields turn to hills,

and the dark becomes desolate,

light canyons of blue and green,

envelope my senses,

I am headed west,

 

For reasons yet clear,

I seek the land of my birth,

a wasteland true,

yet I must be warm,

in the shadows of the ocean sea,

 

I climb the divide,

into basin and range,

I taste the mesa, the mountain,

and virga in the distance,

and the desert smells of youth,

 

the colored cliffs,

slot canyons of cottonwood,

ancient trees frozen in time,

the synclines and folded blocks,

this dust covered sandscape,

 

High atop the last high peak,

looking toward the valley of the great river,

the goal is now in sight,

hell lay before me,

but there is no return,

 

passing by or near the old place,

bad dreams and death left behind,

to a new land and sunshine,

to ply the dark trade,

yet live in the light,

 

to cross the desert majestic and bleak,

to finish by an ocean bay,

to meet old friends,

to finish an adventure,

to begin anew.