Her truck roars angry sounds without a driver
In the wet of night, parked in a spot of mud
And a thicket of weeds and gravel-dirt.
She who had crashed it while it rolled downhill
Lies only close enough to where it was
To blister in the iron breath
Beaten with a burning excruciating
Skin taut and glazed and smooth and cracked
Old and senseless, in her dying mind
The world does not move. She sees only the glow
Nor twisted nor scarred
Nor truck nor flame. Her legs feel the least
Frightened crash she hears the roar
Thirstily consume
Now crackling laughter popping and sharp
Cacophony of roars escaping the jagged-tooth jaw. She weeps
She struggles anew, but still he consumes
In the uncaring night, boiling in the smog,
And dreaming of taking all.
She burns and she prays to be taken–away,
Pleading deliverance of her wasting body.
…She faints the heat becoming too much:
But whether dream or lying light
She vanished. Only scorched Earth remains.
Sophistry and Solipsism in the New Millennium 