i’m breaking;
i’m not quite sure what direction to take;
mostly because there doesn’t seem to be any
road map to follow,
in fact, no road whatsoever;
i don’t think i was meant to take this trip to begin with,
yet here i am,
i guess
the car seat next to me sits bare
in untouched space in the form of glass molded to the curves of the car,
an unoccupied lair;
silence echoes through the stillness of the ride going home, or nowhere i can be found
there’s no laughter, no chatter, no company to see
just the hum of the engine,
the sound of the road,
a commute in routine
sheltered by a piece of steal wanting to kill me
the moment i drive off this cliff and into a tree
Fred Aiken Writing 