Cruising The Death of Time

There is a desolate highway
that cuts through
my mind's haunting pines.
A scull and crossbone
on the exit sign.
Through rugged terrain
of yesterday's.
Counting the monotonous lines.
Driving back
through the death of time.
Cruising to days
you perished being mine.
Back to you holding my hand,
absolutely inconceivable,
you would ever let go.
It's heart tugging to visit
those memories now,
the heart still gives,
a phantom swell.
I drove back
and parked in tomorrow.
Into the deep drop of the unknown,
I courageously fell.