Highway Red

There's a hundred dead bodies,
scattered on the loneliest highway.
All have different scars and wounds,
A hundred ways to die,
A hundred ways to be no more.
And the blood flows,
Like a river of thick wine,
As the birds of prey,
In their greed,
Wait on the golden hills.

They make sure.

But the bodies won't move anymore,
The faces won't smile anymore.
Forever frozen they are,
In their assortment of pain.

They all have different expressions,
A hundred ways to scream,
But all have one, same face,
My face,
My mouth, my ears, my eyes,
Staring at the wall of death,
With a hundred ways to face it,
A hundred ways to die.