Storied Lines(prev untitled) edit

[TranquillityBase]

Black, crisscross lines scar the white concrete,      Is this about concrete (as in a parking lot) or a road (as mentioned in last stanza) which would be asphalt and not white?
arranged in unnatural angles of violence.       Cant' those cracks also (more often) result from weathering and time?  From the thousands of everyday crossings?
Geometric evidence of lives intersected.   
 
Squealing tires echoing in the ether,
not heard by the living, still felt in the gut.
Was metal, bone rent and broken;
lives shattered with the windshield,
a mosaic of infinite shimmering shards,
suspended in stopped time, an inflection,
never to be the same?                                this is too cliche for the end of such a powerful stanza
 
Or was the violence only of words?
Curses made at each other and the universe,        "unknown others and the unknowable universe" (putting words in your mouth....sorry...just a thought)
the anger of inconvenience.
Plans made the only thing broken.
 
Black crisscrossed lines on the road
keep their secrets,
leaving us to wonder.

I don't have a title for this one yet.

While what you've written here is very vivid, and connects nicely back to the opening stanza, I wanted a stanza about how time and ordinary traffic would create these which could then lead into you pondering on the cracks that occured in wrecks and road rage. Or lead into such a stanza at the end, wouldn't change the ending. Maybe I'm being too pedestrian (no pun intended) but when I look at a weathered, worn down road, unless there are skid marks, broken glass, etc. I would not think first of mayhem. 

Barring that, you might mention skid marks and glass along with the cracks in the opening and my stumble would be solved. 

I'd end it with "keep their secrets", at least as it stands now.

TqB

Though you didn't ask, "Fracture" might be a good title