The Fuel

It wasn't brand new but
dusty, rusted, tested and a survivor
still in his prime people said
long way to go on the road ahead

It won some races, some exclusive ones
they said it was good, gifted, blessed
no one saw the dampness of sweat beneath, drenched
the wheels rolled, under him and burned

A new set of tires, every new race
an ant among rats, it ran and ran again
a picture on the dashboard, the fuel
a hope in accomplishment, so cruel

The picture, fading like an old tattoo
the hope, flickering like a distant star
the fuel, running out of life
the race still on, intense and rife

Exhaust pipes, thick and cloudy, kissing the drain
black, wounded, blocked and blazing hot
some spirit for fuel it takes to quench the fire
but they wither out too, times are so dire

The engine is broken, yearns replacement
fuel spent, none in sight, one in mind
it craves for a garage, far off, in solitude
away from the race, zillion faces to elude

It ain't a quitter but it ain't no god either
without the fuel, it can't face the race ever
not always a winner but always a good finisher
but without the fuel, it can't face the race ever, never...

I am unable to end this poetry, it can go on and on i guess, such is the power of unstoppable bullshit. Huh! But, i have a race to face and hence, i must leave. Let's just hope, the fuel replenishes before the body parts give up, along with the engine and the exhaust pipes.

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Playing in my Head: 'A Bad Dream' by Keane