Driving

I love this road. Every little mound, and every crevasse, Flower filled, to the brim. The moths and mosquitos caught in my headlamps. Trees of aspen and oak keeping me on track. And here, the night clouds are much darker than the night sky. And jets zoom 50 metres above my head, asking, "What are you here for?" In which I respond, "I'm taking in the sights." "This road is beautiful." "I wonder where it ends." "Does it really have to end?" And as for the rest, Every single time, at every single jet, I'm shaking, trembling, I'm speeding at each bump. Pot-holes ruin my suspension. My engine weakens (believably gently) at the thought. My brake pads and wheels through the wearing of my rubber-- They're guiding me slowly out of this car. And here, glowing brighter than the moon, I ask them, "Why are you so weak?" In which they respond, "I'm just burning bright." "This road is beautiful." "I'm wondering when does it end." "And, will it end before me?"