David Lessard - Speed

He put it to the floor,
felt his head pushed back;
he barreled down the road,
burnt rubber leaving tracks.

Forty, eighty, one hundred,
the needle kept on going;
until outside his window,
no images were showing.

Just a blur of color,
just the engine's roar;
just the dark ahead, as,
through the night he tore.

Now the speed was blinding,
he felt a rush within;
not conscious of the road,
or where the hell he'd been.

The deer sprang from the trees,
kissed his windshield, quick;
he pulled off to the shoulder,
then barfed, becoming sick.

Speed was not the culprit,
as he wiped up the slop;
fast cars were not responsible,
it was just that sudden stop! !

David Lessard

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/speed-13/