The ride is seldom smooth
With the humps, the bumps
The potholes, the dents and the dumps
The narrow, the wide, the meandering
As treacherous as a troll belying
That’s when you grip that wheel with a tenacity
Swearing to oust everyone in vicinity.
Your only weapon is that blearing honk
Like your own temper flaring up,
and landing on someone with a plonk
How you seek to control everything not within
You eye everyone as a trespasser and
charge at them with much chagrin
the outsides is what you inspect;
the zillion other movers enroute;
who are your prime suspect
as clouds of dust, blurring your goal;
your destination; you look out; and
there you see someone crossing on
you freak out, you blow the horn
that horn – the voice of agitation, unsettling
on Road, the mix of mixes of people shuffling
along with their emotions, elusions, expectations;
yes, you see utter chaos, the bottlenecks of trepidations
the triumph you seek, by shouting out the other;
the intolerance, the impatience, the insolence;
to pervade the ether
but in the end, you ruin your own being,
what you drove to win, becomes your losing
this road, a medley of makes
it teaches you to manoeuvre
grip that wheel of life through experiences
you learn to drive, to make way for yourself;
through the narrowest escape, you emerge a survivor
you learn to get past, even without blowing the horn
and even learn to wait, in that race against time;
you learn to let go of that, which is way off rhythm and rhyme
the need to blow your top, the horn, you get to know
wasteful, when the needful is just to focus,
the reins to your goal; the way, onto itself will unfold somehow?
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