Surrounded by honking predators,
Hell bent on putting me off my path,
I tirelessly meander through the sea.
The endlessly zigzagging traffic talks in a hybrid tongue.
Part human, part auto: the language is but noise tucked into profanity.
A sea of wheeled humanity,
More inclined to stop my progress than to move, Yells,
“Stay adrift, onwards, at any cost.”
This pervasive anthem, the road, coercively sutures into you.
The impetus is to swerve, veer, skew, dodge and often brake erratically.
Traffic reminds one of a turbulent stream, its onward motion sacrificed to the endless bicker of the ripples.
Units designed to move forward, quarrel and stagnate in unison.
This ain’t an occasional occurrence – this is the norm.
For you are in the country born at the stroke of the midnight hour.