Cotton Road

The world outside the window just vanished.

One minute, the road was there, a familiar track.

The next, a wall of gray, a blank space banished

everything but the immediate, pushing back.

Headlights cut weak, flat beams, a yellow strain.

Just a car length ahead, then nothing, a solid drape.

Everything felt soft, indistinct, a gentle pain

of loss, like a thought trying to escape.

No edges, no horizon, just this thick, wet air.

Making ghosts of the trees, blurs of the fence line.

My hands gripped the wheel, a silent, steady prayer

for something solid, a clear, unmistakable sign.

But it was just the cotton, holding everything still.

And the slow creep forward, against my own will.