Everybody seemed to like my last poem, so here's another. If you like it, leave me a comment, an' recommend the blog! Thanks!
Throttle dirge
By Buckshot
I roll on the throttle and feel the surge
as wild and urgent as a primal urge.
The blacktop before me has a life of its own;
it beckons me forward like lovers I’ve known.
I lean into curves like the swell of hips
and the narrow bridges like puckered lips.
Excitement builds as I round each curve;
how far can I push it if I have the nerve?
Sparks are flying as I make the turns,
the pipes are scraping and the asphalt burns.
I push the limits of my bike and skill,
as the Twin Cam engine drinks it’s fill.
Life holds no wonder without the ride;
it’s hollow and empty with nothing inside,
and the warm amber whisky, it takes me away
to places I’ve been but couldn’t stay.
So I revere the throttle and the thrill it brings,
and the whisky that promises angel’s wings;
the end will be fast, with no time to linger,
when that terrible Reaper points his finger.
Do I fear his touch? No, not at all!
He reaches for me like a siren’s call,
and from the carnage my soul will fly,
then we’ll ride forever, my lover and I.
But she does not care; she does not feel,
for I am flesh and she is steel,
so I’ll lavish her with paint and chrome
till a host of angels takes me home.
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