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
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