A young boy of just sixteen,
Driving around trying to be seen.
Attempting a move like he saw on the television,
He didn’t see me before the collision.

Crossing the street I did not see,
That a car was heading straight for me.
The screeching tires shout out their warning,
That is the last thing I recall of that morning.

Even though I passed away,
I forgive the boy for his juvenile display.
Yet, where ever he goes, near or far,
Guilt is like his permanent scar.
In time I hope his scar will fade,
As he forgives himself for the mistakes he has made.