Got to shift gears, changing lanes,
must put aside all those pains,
ignore postings by the road.
Yellow lines infinity
postulate curves laying ahead
beyond the corner . . . pools of red.
What fuel takes me further
in ev'ry type of weather?
Our stops are not integrated.
Are there maps for our journey
from conception until it ends?
Freedom has a price . . . pools of dead.
There's never only one way--
where there is a split lane highway.
We've bridges to build; come let's talk.
The price is ever changing;
no two things are ever alike.
Crashing, clashing, makes . . . pools of red.
Are life and death both rewards?
Bring that to the safety boards.
I'm already shifting down
with no breaks. I'm homeward bound.
All change lanes--now and again--
most are following . . . pools of dead.