Drive

[tectak]

Drive

another day starts with
the strike of a match

Racing up the sharp
timbers

from the further grey.

That burning it keeps
the drivers sweating

and clips through the
chatters of the day

until all that is left are
bare hopes.

carrying their smog
down the road

empty luggage for a
black horizon

a horizon,

where embers
and tears meet.

Hello beno,
I do not normally comment on poetic pieces which appear to be languishing, or at least, not specifically for that reason. In this case, having read and reread the piece, I am still unsure of two things. Firstly, what is it about. Secondly, why has no one commented on it. Two questions...one answer. It is lacking in intent.
There is nothing in the piece which concludes and being enigmatic there is nothing
in it which can be contradicted in poetic terms ( disconnects, displacement, inversions, etc.)
I am happy to be wrong as then some critics may decide to support the piece in ways l can not.
My suggestion would be to add texture and bulk to the piece...but decide at the outset that you want to include the reader in your understanding of what you are writing about. That includes using metaphors to explain and punctuation for clarity. Peculiar enjambments and random line breaks do not make good poetry...no matter what you hear from the thousands of pretenders.
Best,
tectak