Before the road there was a trail,
Trod by both beast and man;
Through deep, dark woods, beside cool streams,
Where deer and wolves once ran.
In distant past dwelt dark gods,
Reigning supreme and cruel.
A sacrifice of blood they asked,
A drop or splattered pool.
Indian warriors understood
And gladly paid the toll.
A piece of meat, tobacco, too;
A small price for their soul.
But modern man knows no such fear
Of myths, folk tales and such.
Gods are not real. Man just believes
In things he can see, hear or touch.
He built his road on evil plains,
Cursed by the Devil's own hand.
Hungry for blood, the Road Gods hunt
The innocent and the damned.
Dead buck & does litter the ditch
On that cursed stretch of road.
No doctors needed for accidents here,
But for hearses a heavy load.
The Road Gods, always hungry,
Not discerning of their fare.
A dog, a cat or school-bus will do
When the Road Gods leave their lair.
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Author Notes
This poem, like a short story that I'm currently working on, is based on a reoccurring dream that I had after losing my wolf-hybrid, Kimba, and spending months driving around looking for her.
Thanks to Chris Wharmby for the picture.
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