Adreneline's Shadows

[chaosmedian]

As I ride, while I glide,
over the sun-bleached concrete;
My nose picks up the fumes
of rubber caked and baked
in long, dreadful arcs.

Ghosts of speed, a ceaseless need,
for the needle to dip complete;
These are silent echos
of hard brakes and small mistakes.
Lessons learned too late.

Comments

[blogtodiffer]

Your poetry is getting better man, lovely snip.