In lanes where time does slowly creep,
Where tires tread and engines weep,
A symphony of honks and sighs,
Underneath the open skies.
The clock hands dance, the sun does crawl,
Upon the dash, shadows fall.
A sea of cars, a snail’s pace,
Each driver with a weary face.
Oh, what a place to pen a verse,
As minutes pass—a traveler’s curse!
The world outside moves not an inch,
Inside, ideas begin to clinch.
With every tick, a line is born,
Between the beeps and horns forlorn.
A stanza here, a rhyme there too,
A poet’s touch in traffic’s stew.
So here we sit, the world on pause,
Abiding by unwritten laws.
Yet in this jam, a thought takes flight,
A poem birthed in traffic’s plight.
The hours stretch, a vast expanse,
In this vehicular slow dance.
A moment’s move, a hopeful glance,
But back to stillness, in a trance.
We’re statues in a metal maze,
Counting seconds, losing days.
But in this halt, a mind can roam,
And find within a rhyming home.
The bumper’s kiss, the stoplight’s tease,
A gentle breeze stirs up the leaves.
A tale unfolds with each delay,
In lines of verse, we find our way.
A journey stalled, yet minds race free,
In traffic’s grip, we tap the key.
Of patience, time, and life’s grand tour,
A poem’s born, forevermore.
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Great poem.
Thank you! 😎
Wonderful Poem Brother.
Thank you very much! 😎