The rain splashes on the musty windshield
In an organized pattern of discontinued drops.
They are gray, sloshing down as clumsy giants,
Breaking apart into individuals
Only to be swept back together at last in the end.
They dance in an unsettling manner
Battles up rise between them.
Battling of grandeur races
To reach the edge before the silencing blade.
They colliding together; a stop sign.
Meander to a halt, - right - left -
A rolling start and mid intersection
Envisioning a crash, medium velocity.
Smashes into the drivers side, hidden away
In my blind spot.
Then I am outside the car,
Unable to see my very own death.
I see glass shatter across the street,
Shards of metal, a single tire - classic -.
Then I return to the car.
Among the silent breathing rain.
Watching them dance dubiously.
Unscathed through the intersection.
It would be quick - the brain wanders -
To die in such a fashion, fusion of car and skin.
There would be no fault, no suffering.
Ah, to die without causing damage.
The only way to truly die without regret.
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Comments about this poem (My Windshield by Emily Beck )
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