Painting the street red

The wide roads seemed could adjust more,

some speeding to hell, some driving home.

Most speeding lights knew no rules,

even speeding on curves, puking dirty fumes.

I remember the words that my mother said,

and so at times I get late to avoid being Mr. Late.

I know there's someone at home, for me who waits,

she gets her sleep of peace, only if I am safe.

Every morning when I rush to get the keys,

she stands by the gate, asks me to ride slow,

with an worried face, the bye-bye she waves.

One evening, things didn't remain similar,

a drunk man on the lorry, missed the sight of this petty rider,

little late he pushed the brakes,

I kissed the streets and laid helpless.

I painted a part of the streets red,

on the footpaths I was made to rest,

a few seconds that I still don't remember,

I felt good to be alive, not for me, but for my mother.

I  returned home, leaning on my friends shoulder,

what hurt me more, was my mothers tear.