Drive

I am driving for the horizon and everything
is running with me. Time has no minutes
but is the writhing trees (fifty-seven, fifty-eight)
that hurtle past me, uprooting themselves
from darker soils and sprinting faster than
the screaming wind. I think only of the road,
of the damp tarmac beneath me that winces
under tyres who push me onwards, knowing
that I cannot stop – not even for a second.
There isn’t any sun here so the fog is dull,
obscuring all until we’re upon it – the trees
and I – running on. And this is a bit like dying
and a little like falling in love. Only it’s neither;
it’s nothingness, and it’s definitely not you.
I am driving for the horizon and everything
is running with me. But in the end, we are all
beaten. Beaten sore, because the finish line
never comes. I pull over in the shadows of the
night and do nothing. The words didn’t work.

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