Nevada Midnight

I can see the end of the road;

a sandy bluff hiding in the thistles

where the asphalt crumbles. 

A distance that the headlights 

don't quite reach out to

but that the starlight finds.

I don't pull over into that old

ditch where the cedar trees

hang their branches nakedly.

Falling off into the abysmal

things that swarm streetlights;

prisms in the heavy mist.

What is left of the torrential rain;

struggling to keep ahead of all the

phantoms chasing us in the mirror. 

I can see the end of the road

approaching in black coffee steam

and cocaine on a young Sunday.

The drop-off holds no depth

in the face of our flaming oblivion;

all quaking silhouettes come again.

Author's Note

S.W.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Has a Thelma and Louise sound to it. Cocaine is not the best companion to go driving with on a dark night.