Spa music drones in surround, covering
The drone of the engine like a cocoon
For a dying moth that will never dance
Orgasmically before the white light.
The other drone, in semi-consciousness,
Awakens to the stench and scream of brakes,
Finds his hands already clenched tight from dread
Of the thing that waits at the road’s dead end.
Changing lanes, choosing to avoid quick death
For the tamer option of wasting life
In a sea of trivia, in a world
Without significance, free from all hope.
Having chosen, he turns into the lot,
Parks the car, sighs, and enters the workplace.