cleaverchris

Sometimes on my daily drive to school
I would imagine what places I would find
if I just kept driving, driving, driving.
Would there be a serene country covered
in rolling, green hills, slightly stylized
like the ones you see in paintings?
Would the sky always be a pleasant blue,
openly accepting my clouds of worry?
I think I’d plant myself on a fertile knoll
and watch my woes billow out of my ears,
and my head would become sunny again.
After that I would drive to the open sea
and there would be an old, ornate boat
waiting to take me away to the Undying Lands
with Gandalf and Frodo and Bilbo Baggins.
They would say goodbye to their hobbit friends
as I stood alone.
“You are not like Frodo.” Gandalf would say,
grasping my shoulder with his aged hand,
looking at me with hopeful blue eyes.
But what does Gandalf know anyway?

Other times I imagined with intricate detail
the shattering windshield and cacophony of
crushing metal and my breaking body
as my car smashed into an oncoming semi.