Crash

Driving home,
Relaxed, enjoying the ride,
Unawares of what would come
Just around the next corner.
Just over the bridge,
A hidden monster
Quietly waiting.
Black Ice.
It lashes out.
Tires slipping,
Finding no purchase.
The driver starts to lose control,
The back end swinging out.
He tries to correct it
But fails.
He is in an uncontrollable skid,
The tires strangely quiet—
Screeching replaced by an eerie silence.
Time seems to stop,
The car has turned 180 degrees.
He sees the snow bank
And feels relief,
Something soft to stop his careening vehicle.
He revels in his luck,
In that short split second before he realizes his err.
The snow bank forces the back the car up,
At such an angle,
That it begins to roll.
Caught in a cyclone,
A whirling dervish of terror.
The windows smash,
His hand hits the road,
Becoming instantly shredded.
The car comes to rest on its roof,
The driver frantically trying to free himself.
He crawls out of his car,
And looks down at his mangled hand;
Blood spurting
Bones gleaming.
He runs off for help.

&copy Joshua Bryant Cole