I don't write poetry. Lack the ability of calling all sorts of vocabulary to mind while writing. But, I like this one.




It is not our fault when they try to cross.
What can we do but stop? Must--
W e s t o p?
They take those tentative steps
on an unknown journey, and
the speeding machines have no compassion.
Bones are crushed beneath the spinners

and a yellow trail
streaks under their body and further
to the horizon
where we are drawn to
like moths to flame
like mosquitos to blood
It is our path, so we
spare only
a slight glance
to those we crush underneath.


roadkill.

I like it, your style of writing is good, I shall reccomend a friend to read this; I love your visualisation of roadkill.