Rage

Riding a scotch high down a twisting river road past midnight, his grip tightens on the steering wheel in sync with the pressure of his foot on the accelerator. He convinces himself he is chasing meaning in a meaningless time, waiting perhaps around the next curve or the next in the tree with his name on it. Silence shatters in the mirror above the dashboard: the familiar face glares at him, screams the ugly sound of rage. He trembles, sees himself in the agony of his limits. He listens to what he sees; he hears madness. He breaks the glass, disappears in the cry. In the headlights, purple eyes devour the mist. Gods of another age, another plane, guide him, automatic cruise, into the empty night beyond the threat of the winding river. © Gene Williamson, 2009