The Tollway Blues

This road, a serpent winding through each day,

feels like a weight on my chest, not a pass.

Caught behind a stalled car, my patience frayed,

red taillights glowing, a slow-moving mass.

Every mile a whisper, an echo of strife,

that familiarity breeds, not comfort, but dread.

I thought it was freedom, but now it's a knife—

this tollway feels more like a threadbare bed.

As I inch to the end, a pit in my gut,

yawning gaps widen; the sky’s growing dim.

With every brake tap, my thoughts start to rut,

this lifeline, a trap, and I’m fading within.