Ford Focus

It’s my wheel I’m steering,

Into advanced fog searching for inner purity,

Silent abandoned streets with question marks as names,

Yellow lights flashing similar messages,

Tired of driving, pulling over not an option,

Therefore tiredness brings swerving, completely weak unnerving,

To where and why within excuses, dried tears, happiness diluting fear,

My wheel.


I automatically melt into routine runtimes, cruise control without control

Wake up in a different lane, unaware of missed destination points

Low on unleaded, stop necessary, I’ll refuel skipping cemeteries

My wheel.

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