The Highway always narrows
no matter how straight it looks,
three lanes become just two, then one
and in the mania we miss our exit.
There are pot holes, bumps and cracks
and men with hard orange hats
using their arms for their mouths
that tell you to re-route, you can't pass here-
Unless you're someone who knows someone
who holds rank o'er the file,
you might be privileged to pass on by
and negotiate the ride of your life
should you chose to remain on this road.
There are signs of caution, warning,
to proactively safeguard you, yet-
accidents, tragedy, injury, death,
most caused by mal-decision,
or an ego trip gone very wrong-
in our haste to get ahead of the pack.
Texting, speed and rage,
just like email, greed and haste
similar terms....similar turns;
The Highway...
not so different from Life, is it now?
FjR-MMXVI
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem