The High-way

another poem not organized in stanzas, boy, I'm such a rebel.

Objects morphed and twisted on the highway, stretched by perspective, blended by speed.  The scenery one homogenous mass seperated only by the limits of one's imagination.  The world is a colorless smudged place indeed.  But slow your pace: the colors become crisp, the outline of a tree is silluetted by the bright light of the sun.  And you look into her eyes, and realize you've never seen anything like it, though you've been engulfed in it; surrounded by it all of your life.

Author's Note

the "her eyes" part is metaphor as well, this isn't a romance, it's about nature. Just thought I'd clear that up.