This post has the following content warnings:
View Flat HTML
View Metadata
Search Post
Eugene's out driving, out joyriding,
that January Sunday eve
to convince himself he isn't hiding,
or giving family a reprieve.
It's not for brooding; it's for fun,
the speeding, streaking metal ton
under his unflawed direction,
controlled and diamond-strong perfection.
Of course he knows what's coming next;
the road is clear in his retention,
so what's it matter if his attention
begins to drift. He gets a text.
It warrants an express reply,
And he'll hear the minds of any nearby.
it was actually easier for me to do it this way
turned-seventeen-in-1918
turned-seventeen-in-1918
So:
Eyes off the road, he swift composes
a response, while hitting s four times.
But strangest thing: although he knows his
radio's off, he hears these - chimes.
He searches for the music's source,
and neglects to mind his Volvo's course.
How could he fail to hear a driver? -
The answer comes: the girl's alive, her
breathing pained, but motion's matched
with trepid, shaky underscoring.
Eugene comes near, tense but exploring;
though guilty, finds himself attached.
To genuine interest he's rarely inclined,
but what a precious puzzle, this musical -
turned-seventeen-in-1918
...oh.
he's already several seconds in, but
several seconds is not long enough to kill a person, if he can -
- stop -
turned-seventeen-in-1918
He doesn't stop; he keeps on going,
so soon the task becomes to waste
the truck and car beyond all knowing
the cause of death was merely taste.
He wanders home, relates events;
his family checks the evidence,
determines they're all in the clear
(except for him, he hears them fear).
All in all, it takes ten days
before he makes himself a liar
and builds himself a reaching fire
and throws himself upon the blaze.
He held out for his golden eyes
but still no hope, and so -
Here Ends This Thread