War Zone

I am a stop sign and it seems that my usefulness is outlived. I have been erected astride the boundaries between give and take. I stand firm with a thirst for respect and fatigued with despair, refusing to waiver in my position on what’s right and what’s wrong. I scream, I cry, I am steadfast and consistent in my message. It is a message that is simple, yet too complex for some to understand. My spine is not weakened by their ridicule. My passion does not cease with their defiance. Though winds have tried to remove me…my wings just flap and sway as if I am a bird out of sync. I am still standing. Others hang on walls as trophies to those rebellious against our cause. Yet, I remain, marked only with the colorful scars caused by similar rebels. These scars mark my face with symbols and vulgarity as a stain that blemishes the finest of fabric. They cover me as moss does a great oak, a constant reminder that I am not welcome, that I am not wanted. I constantly smell the repulsive musk of the engines as they roll by me, unstoppable, as if I am unseen. I was created to be strong, to be powerful, yet I feel weak and powerless. It is only when I hear the rapturous sound of brakes that my spirit feels refreshed, as if it were a cool drink on a hot day. I hear the joyful sounds of children’s laughter and play as they safely cross the treacherous path that I flank…and once again, even if only for a moment, I feel hopeful.





© copyright 2006 Renee Fowler