poetry

midnight

in the evening he slides
onto his motorbike
it bristles with angst

he carves through the road
(as supple as a tongue)
the stars jostle
passed pious heads
of clouds

his iron stallion pauses
at the throbbing traffic light
impatience quivers inside
his throat

a green ghost oozes
whirls briefly before
the stallion soars
through the ether

his eyes are open
or even alive to pulses
of motion that fall
grip
wring
swallow
collide
into a sublime being

who dances
in the face
of the fuel tank

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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