Rivers, Snakes, Alleyways.

The river was winding, ever changing, Though not was the scene. A car, on the river travelling, Into bends, it did lean. The car sees fitful flashes, Of farms and wildernesses. Flames and the slumber before the flare. Those which, before man, were never there This, the car, travels the river. The car saw those less high come hither, And those nigh on twice its height to go thither. And as it rode on the river, it began to sink, and in memories flounders. And the engine sputtered, and occasionally, it, its time, laundered. The car was old, and the river winding towards an end. The car left no evidence of its passing, simply the silence did it rend Simply the crunching of gravel, which lingers naught. In the world of cars, this car was different, and for this it fought. It prefers it that way; it was the circumstance it sought. And as the river, to an end, came, It lost all the thoughts it had yet to say… The snake is full, and stuffed is its hull, Though not are a car’s tires. The car’s paint is chips, is dull, It has seemingly eternal combustion and internal fires The car was fragile, No longer was it agile. Its tires were marked with memory, Aged by allegory, And to maintain its slow pace, its only hurry. Avoids all in fearing of an accident, For, at touch of dust, its hood bent. This rent the fear that made its slow, Bent over, head held low. Other cars pass by, and the end, it is there now. Then in desperate attempt to keep pace its engine stalls. This, a finality draped, ending what discoveries it still had... The alleyway was patchy, as the tires would testify. The same pothole comes forever, in dire repetition. Bearing down on death as to the Devil’s law comply. This wearing at the car’s transmission. Badly burnt by brightness and its bite, Followed by dogs, mangy and many, never out of sight. This, a car of Russia, was rusted, equipped with doors with color with many a multiple. Worn leather seats hid a too clean engine, for which they are culpable. The axle ground roughly perfect stone blocks into and over that cheap tar It was wondrous intrinsically, that it had come from such a place as Russia afar, And yet, no one was curious about the origin of this odd czar. It begins to slow and all that is accelerating is the speed at which it slows. It feels, and indeed it knows, there is very little and very few which it knows. The car does not speak its distinctive tongue, It pants, ever despising its expiring iron lung. Yet, from the brakes, such screaming mad ballads sung. And in obeying and betraying all souls simply straying, This final car obviates unburdening; Loses the all and the none; That will fall and will be done; Finds nothing and the sun; This is all that is willed and won. The Road was well travelled, An epicenter of emissions, A place of infinite fission A land of heartfelt collisions.