the years come creeping in
moments of glory
and lifetimes of glin
the leather jackets of screams
and the black boots of euphoria
the rider on his ecstatic beauty assets
at the theater of his life,
the road is but howling flutes
a stranger to his own skin
He lives in his head
in a house of words unsaid
His Handle is fire
a blue bird on a wire
an Evolution of his own
wind in his hair
love in his eyes
roaming the days'faces
for blooming smile traces
flashing his dimples
holding up high his chin
hills of joy
dunes of laughter
deserts of snow
melt at his whisper
mustard fields sway
at his footsteps play
the stars spin at his humming soul
and the moon of him jealous,
hides its face
flame in his engine
hitting the road of impossibles
distance,
nowhere to be found
destination,
everywhere around
the rider flies in his lonesome ballad
a perfect man is a poet with a bike,
he said
and a magical man is the same poet
wearing himself and a hat.
He is perfectly perfect,
just like that
sipping his beer of nostalgia
and burning in his Classic scented smoke
feeding on some packs of memories
and walking through the fears, his talk
in lanes of iron head happenings
shifting from one dream to another
swerving the time curves
turning every stone path of despair
into flowing rivers,
of hope.
He Hammers down to each sky
High siding his sadness
on the pavement of madness
in a Hole-shot stunt
The Hooligan of his myth
edging of the cliffs of his bliss
He hugs for fuel
and goes on, even when hurt
purified in the glitter of dirt
Hyping up worn
hosed but never torn
you can only rise him up
because nothing can ever
bring the hardcore lover
down.
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