Trina Stolec

The Auto Graveyard

The gravel crunches                               beneath my feet                               although I try to step                                   silently,                  fearfully                                       I am surrounded on                                         every side by                                           piles of                          death,          destructed          twisted metal.                                  Piles tyrannosaurus high,                                  the screams still echoing                                  inside the dark chambers.                                         I do not want                                   to awaken the dinosaurs,               hear the screams turn          to roars          of rage and protest,                 watch the blood begin          oozing from          old wounds                  see the tears          they will cry          for their loss,                     smell the smoke,           the death,          the fear.                                  I step as quietly as possible                                        on the litter of                              broken glass,          bits of metal.            I pray silently     my eyes raised to     the clouds over the giant pile's heads.                        please,pleasE,pleaSE,pleASE,plEASE,pLEASE,PLEASE                        just let them remain                    asleep.                                   There are so many of them.                                       I am outnumbered.                                      So many voices, and                                they all have a story to tell:                     Why the clean white shirt hangs from the broken window.                      How the rats are drawn to the bloodstained upholstery.                     Why the tennis shoe is still imbedded in the dashboard.                            How the dogs try to spray them clean.                      Why the suitcase in the trunk will never be claimed.                                  How THEY were NOT at fault.                                   Millions of stories that                                  they'll all try to tell me                                     if they awaken.                               Millions of voices screaming words                                   that no one wants to hear,                                       but they are                                         desperate                                       to impart.

Copyright © 1999 Trina Stolec All Rights Reserved

Trina Stolec began studying writing and poetry at The Cincinnati School for Creative and Performing Arts at the age of 12.  Her poetry has appeared in 41 print/web zines.  Trina has performed at several festivals for The Arts Council of Greater Toledo over the past 3 years, and is a member of the rock/spoken word band Logic Alley.