Speeding through traffic
With no regard for anyone
But yourself.

You twist and turn,
Jerk and swerve,
And slide all over the road.

Passing without notice
Of the lifted fingers
And the blaring complaints.

The feeling of control
Given to you
By the roar of the engine,
The grip of the wheel
in your hands,
And the pavement
passing by under your feet.
It’s only a feeling.

The true control
Lies in the will
Of the road.

Every turn you take
And every swerve you make,
You’re placing yourself
In the playful hands
Of the rough, hard asphalt.

But even as faulty as asphalt can be,
It won’t be the asphalt’s fault
When you drive straight into a tree.


3 thoughts on “Asphalt

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