Lungs hitched into lead
and frozen to the side of the road
while twilight comes in on the rain.
The highway stretches on
as a surreal landscape of broken lines
and bright eyed monsters.
No one sees the blood left
from your body, battered by
the rushing metal screaming
into the gates from this life
to that. Maybe they see
the flowers. Maybe they see
the cross left here, but
chances are they run too fast
and too hard from their own
white crosses left on their shoulders
that the rest are invisible
by the side of the highway.