Red line

I pulled the atlas from the back seat floor,

its pages thin, a scent of gas and wear.

A route I’d marked for somewhere, years before,

a hesitant pencil line drawn there.

That thin red line, it promised swift escape,

a highway slicing through the green and grey.

But every town name was a jagged shape,

too hard to say, too far away.

It didn't lead me anywhere but here,

this crumpled paper, useless in my hand.

Just ghost roads whispering a familiar fear,

across a faded, unmapped land.