The Late Night Ride to Hell

The Late Night Ride to Hell

The road was slick with diesel spit,

The moon a busted headlamp’s glint.

No stars, no signs—just static hiss

From CB ghosts that don’t exist.

The rig was red, or close to black,

With rust that peeled like scabs out back.

He drove like sleep was just a dare,

Eyes burned in mirrors—nothing there.

Each mile, the hum turned into moans,

The white lines cracked like brittle bones.

An exit came that wasn’t planned.

A ramp of smoke, no place to land.

The tollbooth man had sockets bare,

Took coins that weren’t and didn’t care.

“Keep rollin’,” rasped the voice from ash,

“The road to hell don’t need no cash.”

He geared down once, and then again.

The brakes just laughed, like old dead friends.

The dash lit up with names not numbers,

A roster full of long-lost truckers.

No heaven’s gate, no devil’s pitch.

Just endless dark and gravel switch.

A late night run he can’t outride.

The freight is him, and he’s inside.