August sun beats down the wheel burns

August sun beats down, the wheel burns,

my hands stick, a reminder of heat’s cruel art,

I grip it tighter as the engine sputters,

a journey that feels like endless miles,

thoughts roam free in the humidity,

between the hum of tires and whispers of fate.

Fingers lift, a moment to breathe,

the plastic scorches, a reminder of choices,

a sun-soaked drive with no destination in sight,

the road ahead shimmering, waves of heat,

a time frozen, trapped in this sweltering pause,

a hand on the wheel, a summer's grip.