I’m On The Highway To Hell

The man is sick
the good hand on the wheel

the other digging into his pockets
coins clashing, 120 on the highway

the man is sick
he coughs, he burps
he mumbles, he chokes

the man is sick, wheezing,
if death had a passenger
that would’ve been me
digging nails into my seat

the man is sick, I swear,
as he points a finger
to the barren street
manages a groan

What does he see
that I will not

What does he feel
that I must not

What does he hear
that I dare not

The man is sick
and so is the belly
of this cursed taxi
smells like vomit
and cattle’s piss

the man is sick, I swear
he is driving like it is his last
occasionally wheels lift off the ground,

floating, a fraction of eternity

The man is sick
he does not understand that
I have a bed to return to
poetry to write and a body to love

I tell him to stop
I pay the fare, bid him goodnight
he replies: Good morning
technically yes, but the scenery’s all wrong

The man is sick, I swear
his gods have abandoned him
coffined in machine and disease

does he truly see the light of day
or the fires of hell?

like a cornered animal
dangerous and risking
the sick man
is a mad man
void of reason
willing to die, let go
at any point in time

The man is sick, fading,
may his test end,
may he find refuge
from this wheel of fate.

 

© elancharan

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