Dotted Line or Chipped Paint

There were some roads
and we loaded them
because we were
there. How did you know
how to sound? How did 
you feel? How could
you? Music horizons
well. Block and heads.
Heedlessness and bread.
I feel the garish meats.
Fragmentation and 
indentations. Shall we
                         indent?
Incent? In cents we fail
to trust. Brusque brusque 
brusque. Agreement and
rolling around later, we
promise. Were there roads?
Were they codes? Did we 
goad? What flavor
flow?