In the midst of two roads parted,
where the signs all warned of danger,
with the engine sparked, she started
through the lanes of life, she darted,
running down both friend and stranger.
In her anger, blind, she waited
at the stop sign of her choosing.
On the brake, she stood ill-fated
idled hours, she hesitated,
giving up no ground, refusing.
Failing fuel, the engine stalling;
stops and starts marked her denial.
The exhaust fumes smelled appalling,
rising gauges,' needles falling,
through the backfires of each trial.
On the horn the protests bleated
in cacophonous conniving.
Empty driver's seat conceded,
one lone occupant back-seated.
Please move forward, THEN START DRIVING!
The Gadfly
|
Submission Name: On The Horn
