Me, Myself, and I
Just me, infested with fine grained tailings,
the engines echo off the nearby glistening hills.
Chilled fingers advance the frozen throttle to full potential,
floating, as if I am Nature, an eagle perusing the timber.
Proceeding, practically hallucinating, the objects flying by,
elegant leaves of every color red, orange, green, depict the engulfing scenery.
Riding, by myself, in the towering timber,
burnt, high octane fuel rushes from the red exhaust tube.
Noise, of every creature and bike, are a church choir on Sunday morning.
When horsepower and speed relay an end,
push, harder, faster until the engine screams “STOP!”.
That rush, overwhelms the young riders frigid carcasses,
On top of the world,
when your rumpus hits the black leather cushion,
hold on.