My windshield records the suicides
something my wipers can't overcome
mile upon mile on wet or dry roads
they collide and in someway, succumb
The radio plays my song lists
as I'm counting them, one by one
large and small, they answer the call
my windshield acts like the gun
It doesn't matter the tune
the beat or the sound or reprise
I wonder if it's false or it's true
was it happy, sad, or surprised?
Yes it's the end of a life
a bug that's last act is now gone
*** passing through it's brain
man, that's nasty
and wrong
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 6:36 PM UTC
My windshield records the suicides
something my wipers can't overcome
mile upon mile on wet or dry roads
they collide and in someway, succumb
The radio plays my song lists
as I'm counting them, one by one
large and small, they answer the call
my windshield acts like the gun
It doesn't matter the tune
the beat or the sound or reprise
I wonder if it's false or it's true
was it happy, sad, or surprised?
Yes it's the end of a life
a bug that's last act is now gone
*** passing through it's brain
man, that's nasty
and wrong
Ever wonder?
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