Highway Cross

Along the highways, 

the crosses lie,

marking places of sudden loss,

flowers, brown and brittle,

hang sadly, 

blown by the passing traffic.

The name faded, the paint worn,

old jersey’s ragged and torn.

Those passing, hardly notice,

as they rush headlong forward.

An old woman, 

worn and thin,

stops by the side,

in her hands bright flowers.

Placing them gently,

she stands silent,

the bustling chaos passing,

her head bowed down, 

as tears flow.

The harried hardly notice,

too busy, 

too rushed,

unknowingly heading,

toward their own,

faded flowers and tears,

of their own,

sudden loss.


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