A moving world hurled in the opposite direction,

Black fields backlit by porch lights,

glowing orbs,

eyes of little gods.

 

 

The driving rain would implore anyone else to retract back to safety.

 

 

But the sound is a pounding lullaby,

A force, a war drum,

inexorable,

the way I aim to be.

 

 

It is my last year here.

 

 

In the car I feel normal, washed over by cool air,

Food and debris littering a stained bucket seat.

In the cold I thrive, free from a heat

as oppressive as summer.

 

 

I mimic the insects, the ones that hold lightning in their bodies.

 

 

I, too, have something inside.

The car turns and throws the occupants to the right.

I have something, too, to share,

to leave and give and gain.

 

 

Here, now, at an intersection. I am at one, myself.

 

 

My life diverging into many roads, none of them in a yellow wood.

All lead to somewhere I can't see. The fog is too thick.

Overthinking this could kill me trap me

put me on a path I wish to deviate from.

 

 

Perhaps it is high time I save myself and navigate on autopilot.