Broken

What do they see in the bottom of the bottle? Why take the wheel and rest their foot on the throttle? Can they get it back if something were to go wrong? Not being attentive, louder is the song. Weaving in and out, while engines pass by. Not caring at all, Who lives or who could die Wrapped around pieces broken, Metal all disengaged. Screaming to get out, filled only with staggering rage. What do they care, when their memories fail. At the point of impact, waking up in jail. They strain and struggle, but the drive ceases to exist. Wanting to turn back the clock, is all that is wished. With all this information, can they cure their disease? Why doesn’t the thought of murder, bring them to their knees?