In 1987, I drove through the autumn mist,
the radio whispered directions to lost memories.
Follow the scent of marigolds to Elysium's Porch.
The sandman speaks French in November's dusk.
Mark your spots on invisible maps,
tracing labyrinthine nostrums we never walked.
Remember when violets sang hymns beneath rusty bridges?
Beneath cracked facades, lies
time capsules unearthed by careless footsteps.
Bahnhofstrasse, a stretch of gone past.
September’s clock ticks backward without regret.
Detour the freeway; an invisible map awaits
your own genesis in the echoes of the road.