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in the wee morning hours
before Society yawns and opens its eyes
a solitary soul drives

and there was stillness

in those hours
the road stretched on
the last of his kind
a wanderer
drifter logging the miles
through the wounded land of his past
his present just a blur of city limit signs
future glimpses of visions
contentment only found on the open road

away from the city smog
far from suit coats and mad men
far from sad children and had women
undeveloped land
trees after trees after empty fields

there was stillness

his was no forceful rebellion
abandoning all he was taught to try for
all that he was hypnotized to die for
all that he was forced to lie for

no

he befriended the road
the kindness of strangers
his backseat his bed

sleeping under the open stars
in the arms of stillness.

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