Black's not Beautiful

I hate, despise, abhor and every other negative term in existence having to drive at night on the streets and avenues and parkways of frum Brooklyn. These frum pedestrians, dressed in head to toe in unrelieved black, black gloves on their hands and black mufflers shading their faces, so that even what little light there is has no skin to reflect off of, have zero regard for the cars on these streets and whatever is less than zero regard for things like stoplights. And yes, they clearly have little regard for their own safety, and no knowledge of their own mortality.

On the highways and byways
That snake along and through
The Valley of the Dark Ghosts
I travel uneasily.
And yea though I travel through this Valley
of possible Death,
I shall fear that evil,
Feel it creep up along my spine
As I slowly inch forward
Through the spectres lurking.
There and yet not there,
black ghosts darting across streets
barely lit,
snaking in and around cars
parked and moving,
uncaring and unconcerned that death goes hunting
those of black garb,
in the murky shadows of darkest night.

Ebony ghosts that know not what they do,
that believe themselves above the fray,
oblivious to the turmoil left in their wake
as they pass at will,
not captives to red lights.

Yet once again I emerge out of that Valley,
and breath returns to lungs,
and hands lose their tension.
God has granted me safe passage,
and the Black Ghosts move on,
firm in their belief that they are invincible.

I beg of you God,
let me not be your instrument
to teach the folly of their ways
to the Black Ghosts.