The road built my man, destroyed by fire, neglected by time. A road traveled by many, guarded by dangers. A road haunted by the spirits and ghosts of many. It never speaks, nor does it tell of the many things that happen on it. Only company it has is the silent cries of the old signs and skeletons of past. Flags of the new interrupt its long silent rest. New reason of existence, for the road, for travelers of two icons. A Bull and a Bear. Blood once again fill its broken surface, as though filling veins of a non moving construct. The road feels, it falters turns and twists. It can lead to safety or it can take on a long journey with no hope at the end. The road has many faces. Although they hold their stare. Unforgiving, blank, all the same merciful. To walk the road alone would be to welcome death. Trampled, stomped, the most forgotten yet most important object of the entire wasteland.
Peaceful nights, painfully hot days. The road does not complain, only endures and suffers the abuse it has placed upon it. Only finding a peaceful comfort in sand blown wind across its surface. The road seen from a distance is hard to view, but present. Hard to travel and full of woe. Only a handful of pleasantries go with the road. A lifetime of suffering cannot mend its broken soul. To ignore its warnings will prove fatal. Adding to the roads never-ending miles of silent ghosts. Keeping the road company for eternity is the fate for those who do not heed the roads many warnings. Many things happen on the road. Yet the road holds its voice. The sorrows of the unfortunate never spoken of again. The road will never tell what has happened on its surface nor will it ever lead rescue to aid those unfortunate.
The road has no owner anymore has not seen one in far too long nor does it listen to any master. The road has become feral, wild and uncaring. Speaking to the long unfeeling soul of destructed asphalt will not give any comfort. It will not answer the sobs of tears and blood. The road takes what it wants, and gives nothing in return. And in the end when the world has gone hush and nothing but the wind carries stories from one end of the road to the other, only the road will be left with its ghosts and skeletons for company. For the road has seen a lot and has heard the most. Its stories will never be heard nor told. The secrets it has will forever be kept until no more blood fill its cracked surface.
Think not that the road bends for you or anything else. But everything bends for the Road.