Each love is like racing cars,
Driving through the final line;
Wounds from losing - all its scars,
Shiver up your spine.
You, the driver of speed car,
Formulates through the years;
Rotten deals with feelings are,
Making clouds from tears.
Take the car and steer it well,
To lives fortunes and each fame;
You could likewise drive to hell,
It's a speed life's game.
Peter S. Quinn
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/50-from-what-s-really-happening-in-54-numbers/
