Choice

I love the language of automobiles—
the low-throated purr of waking power,
the restrained thunder under steel,
leashed, until a foot loosens its will.

Beneath the hood, a caged storm waits.
At a touch, it surges forward,
turning silence into motion,
turning desire into speed.

The car is sculpted longing—
hips of chrome, a spine of light,
skin lacquered in colors that flirt
with the eye and refuse to be forgotten.

Inside, the world softens.
Leather exhales wealth and comfort,
buttons glow like quiet promises,
and the road becomes a private theatre.

They say a car only carries us
from here to there.
But it also carries how we arrive—
with grace, with swagger, with restraint.

A car speaks before its driver does.
It whispers rank, ambition, arrival.
It tells strangers who we think we are,
and who we hope they believe us to be.

Still, I distrust the crowded garage—
beauty hoarded, engines sleeping in rows.
One road can hold only one journey,
one wheel at a time turns truth into miles.

Why gather mirrors of the same desire,
when one clear reflection will do?
Excess does not deepen motion;
it only multiplies dust.

So choose—
a shrine of idle splendor,
or a single companion of steel and fire.
Choose lightly.
Let the road, not the crowd, approve.