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A line to Cross

Red light,
the alarming hand,
Yield, don’t move,
or dance the dead man’s groove

The sound of burning rubber,
Sirens evoking the possible flight,
of a confused robber,
Who chewed off more than he can bite,
Standing like sheep, waiting,
to cross

Bumpers crossing paths,
Masked in red, dirt and gravel,
Jumping for the brakes,
to avoid a far and uncanny travel,                                                             

Now the sirens are back,
after a burning track
The white figure,
Permitting you to cross,
through a line that seperates

But mourn the loss,
or mourn it not,
Back to our affairs we go,
Plotted, but disintereseted, for it wasn’t me,
or you,                                                                                                  

just cross, don’t plot
You have a line and the white light, shines
cross this line, bear your footing,  
cross this life, bear no rooting,
cross this line, there’s no yield,                                                                  
No danger,
Cross the line.


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