Nostalgia

The low rumble of a vicious motivation
sits in equilibrium between two cogs
on a predestined road with no variation
on the horizon I move towards unknowingly.

I can hear the echo of the late 60's in my heart,
and feel the viscous drag of societal convention
pulling at my long hair and sinister grin.

I can see myself adorned with leather,
young but with crows feet and wrinkled brow.

I'm not educated, I'm not a philosopher,
but my mind is nimble, passionate, and free.

I'm as sharp as the edge I carry,
and as bitter as the Yukon in my veins,
but my enmity is only in my roots,
which I lifted from these desert sands
when I first tasted the sweet nothing in a drop of water.

One drop of sweetness,
and I'm resolved to disarm,
sober up,
and look upon that drop with empathy.
A crystalline beauty,
only to evaporate in the desert.

As this sweetness leaves, I hold on to its memory.
Then I retrieve my sharpness, my murky demeanor,
and become part of the predestined machine of linearity once more.