One, Mourning in Traffic

{{#ifeq: | | {{#ifeq: Justin S. (Whiteflame) | |

   {{#ifeq: Whiteflame | || 
     Author: Whiteflame  
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   {{#ifeq: Whiteflame | |
     Author: Justin S. (Whiteflame) |
     Author: Justin S. (Whiteflame)  
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 {{#ifeq: Justin S. (Whiteflame) | |
   {{#ifeq: Whiteflame | | Authors: ' | 
     Authors: Whiteflame 
   }} | 
   {{#ifeq: Whiteflame | |
     Authors: Justin S. (Whiteflame) |
     Author: Justin S. (Whiteflame) 
   }}
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}} {{#if:| — see also [[:Category:{{{category}}}|other works by this author]]}}

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<poem> On this particular morning, I can see the deathly pale sky; Fingers of cloud throttling The sun, And not a bird to wake the forgotten Day. All is silent, but the Cars, only the cars, And the flitter of traffic lights, Blinking on and on relentlessly; They are resolute, unwavering, And will not stop To appease some fleeting lust, As cold, thoughtless fingers, Reverberate the mournful sky, With a funeral march of horns, Honks, heartaches, and hapless repetitions.

I begin to relate the cars’ calls to the blinking Lights:

Red, green, yellow, red, Loud honk, soft honk, short honk, And one prolonged. They think that the blasting sound Will trigger some hidden mechanism In the lights, They think they can change the World with a simple outcry, Challenge fate.

Furiously they press harder, faster, louder, But to no avail. The stoplights all turn to red, And red is the color of death.

Even the stoplights will go out, Halt before the end. </poem>

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