From behind the wheel a 2 tonne weapon
gruelingly tears down the road.
The wheel shakes at the turn and the heart revs.
Although he does not wear a helmet he feels the adrenaline.
A squeal pierces the rural air.
And as the back end losses any semblance of control,
The soundtrack to his own film blares from the stereo.
The bass and drum rumble through the speakers.
The guitar holds onto the rhythm for dear life.
The voice screams in unforeseen agony.
The shine of the moon highlights the road.
His right wheels bounce off the new paving as he prepares for the 180.
A van comes around the bend.
The sleeping child never saw a thing.
The mother was on the passenger's side.
She never heard her child's last cry.
The father at least had four hours to remember them as they were.
I feel for the driver in the aftermath
of a crashed car on a rural road somewhere west of the city.
I feel for the driver
who has been raised on speed, power and the belief that he cannot die.
I write about education, music, politics and my own philosophical conundrums. If I have left you thinking about something let me know. Sometimes I think this world needs more thinking.