The road is a slip of slate,
its edges patterned with ash-gray
licks of rubber, the curses of
tires spun out in the rain.
What we name \"joy\" becomes
a soft-speed hum in wind, a
license plate stamped with
permission, our own sealed yes.
To live holiness is to turn
into the unpaved silence, where
rocks jut up like affronts
to ease, scratching ego clean.
Temptation flags us down—
a sleek tollbooth offering flash
and noise, but the map
folds firm against any detour.
God\'s roads are not always
straight, a poet’s hand bending
lines that break you open,
that steer the falsehood out.