That drive back home
when the graveyard shift ends,
bluish-purple sunlight barely spilling over the horizon.
Windows rolled down,
cold wind in my face,
lit cigarette between my fingers.
Heavy metal music tearing through the speakers,
mixing with the cold,
giving me goosebumps.
Empty roads, dead silent,
only disturbed by the distorted guitar solo,
from the Chevy racing home.
No thoughts,
no scars,
no life, death or love;
At the end of night,
before the day ensues;
before my mind starts looking for clues;
To harmony,
strife,
and the meaning of life.
That drive back home.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar
