Sirens ululate in this African requiem

Blue and yellow cones came to mourn at her grave, So, I stopped, to place my bouquet of disrespect. Her skid marked wrists pulsated their wasted beats. The tarmac gagged, its belly bloated blue. A medic pushed with reluctance on her stubborn chest. His gloves not impermeable to remorse, nor disgust. An accomplice raised his hand. Stop! Look Right! Proceed he gesticulates.] My gears lock. The driver is arched, bowing to the curb. She is already wearing black. “She had no right to walk!” “I killed her.” Her guilt leaks incontinent. Green grass borders this cracked canvas, And I the immiscible character coagulate.