we could have made it, Sal
but road signs that indicated any type of future
were passed by
Figurative hours ago
now we are racing down an unmarked gravel road
pebbles crackling and breaking under the black tires
make audible the dissolution of any hope
and any desires
of some imagined future
that we once tightly held
that now seems like a memory
of a dream
that we had when we were children

we're not in control

its curves sending us ramming into eachother
dealing blows of irreperable damage
every sudden bump driving my head into the cieling
sending blood in spatters
that would try to draw like the ancient sages
some type of prophetic fortune
on a cheap four-door's roof
ultimately spelling out
D-O-O-M

we're not in control

and the only sound I can hear
is the creaking of an un-oiled engine
and you screaming, for everything to go back to the way it was.