In the shroud of night, where shadows play and dart,
A tale unfolds on this forsaken stretch, a darkened heart.
Once a maiden fair, with dreams that soared so high,
Met her grim fate beneath a moonless sky.

A truck, its wheels like drums of doom, did roar,
Struck her down, left her breathless, on the floor.
The highway, her final stage, her spirit bound,
To roam forevermore, where her body was found.

“The Highway’s Lament,” the locals whisper, filled with dread,
Of the woman in white, seeking justice for the dead.
Her eyes, like coals, ablaze with vengeful fire,
Hunting the ones who quenched her life’s desire.

Each night she walks, where the trucks groan and hiss,
A spectral sentinel in the abyss.
Her whispers weave through the cold, biting air,
A symphony of sorrow, despair beyond compare.

“Who has stolen my life, my future untold?
Who left me here, in the cold, to mold?”
Her questions, like daggers, pierce the night,
A quest for truth, a wrong to right.

Beware, ye travelers, who dare this path to tread,
For she lingers near, the highway of the dead.
In the silence between the stars, her lamentations flow,
A reminder of the life that was struck low.

So heed this tale, a warning stark and clear,
The highway’s lament, a song of fear.
For she walks among us, a shadow of her former grace,
In search of the ones, her death to face.