The Open Road of Meaning
Some say God maps the miles ahead,
lines painted by a steady hand,
a plan laid down before the wheels rolled.
Others say the asphalt’s blank,
each turn chosen by your grip on the wheel,
each mile written only when it’s driven.
At the counter, a preacher blesses his pie,
while a loner smokes and mutters,
“Meaning’s what you make of it, buddy—
not what you’re told.”
But both of them feel it,
that late-night hum of the diesel pumps,
the silence in the cab at 2 a.m.,
when questions ride shotgun.
Existential truth is simple:
the road won’t choose for you.
Whether by faith or by freedom,
the miles are yours to claim.
