An Interrupting Voice

Hurried movement,
is this road;
A constant
restless pace

There must be a thing
or at least an end.
eventually...
Somewhere ahead

I'm self convinced
that there's a reason,
For always moving
on this road.

some running flat.
some wearing packs.
unsettled in
one direction.

teeth gritting
even clawing
always, always,
movement.

But I want
to finish
to arrive...
...I am tired

after so long
In heated movement
I fear I am dying
without finding...it,
the thing or the end

One voice interrupts
but it takes time
to cut my stare
from the road.

"You're dying"
He says,
"and there is nothing,
no end"

then through kicked dust
and the trample of footsteps
I see him.
I stop.
I understand.

Nothing, no end.
Just Him
and now
Rest