When This Transit Ends

Nearing the end of the road, so dearly followed.
As if you could fall in love just with journey,
standing on its own, regardless of tomorrow.

Stepping slowly through the bogs, so colored with loss.
I wear it on my face instead of my sleeve,
but the people know, they steer from my course.

Not knowing when this transit ends, so my mind unravels.
Coils of rope trip and fall with immediate urgency,
they fall with hurt, ashamed of my endless travel.