Patience

This is just a rant- there's probably a whole lot of typos that I'll sort out another day.

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Patience

 

I hope it’s worth it.

But I doubt it.

Fingers flying over glass

The tap-tap-tap like morse code:

It’s safe. You’re aware. You’re watching.

But the message you receive is a lie.

You’re not safe. You’re not aware.

 

You’re. Not. Watching.

 

I hope it’s worth it.

But it won’t be.

It’s not the first time. It shouldn’t be the last.

Wheels running, the burn of tires soaking the air.

Petroleoum hanging heavy over the road.

Just waiting for the flame of disaster.

And this tragedy comes in the form of you; the match surrounded by a sea of oil

 

Or

This tragedy comes in the form of a Fiat 5oo

This tragedy comes in the form of a Jaguar

Land Rover

Mercades

Reliant Robin

It’s still you, though, just another character on a different stage.

 

There’s so many tragedies these days. Too many. My eyes are stinging.

 

I hope it’s worth it.

You’re murmuring reassurances to yourself.

It’s nothing important.

Nothing that can’t wait.

Fingers flying over glass

The tap-tap-tap like morse code:

Do people deserve to die for no reason but your own unrestrained impatience?

 

Your curiousity’s a hound tugging at its leash

Snarling. Hungry.

Lunging for every message notification.

Every facebook update.

It’s salivating because it knows that you just can’t. Restrain. Yourself.

People are going to die because of this.

This tragedy comes in the form of a driver who is too curious to care.

 

I hope it’s worth it.

 

It’s not, though, is it?

 

This tragedy unfolds not in fair Verona,

But on a country lane.

A duel carriageway.

A motorway.

Ugly tarmac stretching out like Death’s waiting arms,

Clawing at rubber and metal with skeletal black hands.

Leather wings unfurling with excitement as you drive

 

You’re. Not. Watching.

 

You can tell yourself that you are.

It’s so easy to when there’s nothing to watch.

You’re glancing down and back up again, careful, so careful.

Like you’re a kid with their phone out in class.

Typing surreptitiously, your message a whisper.

Why are you still acting like a child at school!?

It’s so easy to look when nothing’s there.

 

It’s not worth it.

 

There’s a little boy with a caved-in skull.

His teddy-bear’s still clutched between blue fingers.

There’s a teenage girl lying in the snow fifteen metres away.

She’s eighteen but was thrown like a ragdoll- string hair and plastic smile.

There’s a woman lying in two halves.

A man with his wedding ring lying on a bloodied hand.

An elderly woman pinned in her seat, screaming for her son.

 

Death hovers like a fog-

Suffocating and sickly grey

You’re choking on it

Phone falling from numb fingers.

You’re drowning on it.

Face the same colour as the dead children’s who lie beneath your tires.

And you’re still alive.

 

Broken necks and breaking hearts.

The whine of the radio fading into the gurgle of blood staining the ground

The howl of sirens collecting into puddles at fallen parents’ feet

As they watch their children die

Seeing the ones they’d thought would bury them

Dissolve into nothing but cold muscle and broken bone

And they. Can’t. Do. A. Thing.

I hope it was worth it.

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