Random poetry

Old Rubber

Cars speed over the train tracks quickly,

to get where they need to be,

orange and short,

white and tall with wide tires,

a sleek low set black car zooms,

over the tracks as if it's driver,

was trying to reach the break between space and time,

from Back to the Future,

all these details,

something,

I will soon forget,

but one thing that stands out,

the one car I will remember,

is the 1971 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia,

that smoothly rolls over the two parallel strips of metal,

and the elderly couple,

in the front two seats,

the rust orange vehicle going smoothly,

while the couple is enjoying the surroundings,

The couple admires the small lively town,

bustling with people around the farmer's market,

where they notice the soft humming of the base,

as they listen to the band's harmony of instruments,

ring through their heads,

they take their time admiring everything,

because they feel they have the time to do so,

they've already experienced so much in their lives so quickly,

why not take their time now,

whereas the young drivers,

rush to get places,

because they don't have time,

to waste time,

they have so much they want to do,

in such a short amount of time before the day ends,

and then the cycle begins again,

our life, a constant chain of cycles,

seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years,

it never stops,

just like the wheels on that Volkswagen haven't stopped yet,

circling over the burning asphalt,

as the rubber on the tires slowly loosens,

then it will sag,

then it will be thrown into the landfill,

to slowly deteriorate over time,

and go into a cycle,

of the atoms reforming into new objects.

my skin,

much like the tires,

will sag and loosen,

as my body circles over the cycle of time,

repeatedly,

and I will be thrown into a cemetery,

much like the tires to a landfill,

and I will slowly deteriorate,

and my energy will mix with the humming of the bass, 

through the ground of the small bustling town,

as people witness without realizing,

the cycles continuing on,

and watching time,

wear us out,

like old rubber.