The Motorcyclist

accelerating till suspended,
a quicktime ghost-flight
through one-light towns,
a presence only intended
to slip in and out of scenes,
brushed here and there
with worn out leather,
old boots, torn jeans,
and wind blown hair

his hoss runs hotter
and screams at whip-quick
flicks of his wrist
fueling even faster
the rocket-ride infusion
of speed that finally resides,
burning in his veins until
exploding into seclusion
he rides

shifted, now transcended
into silent surroundings
where peaceful vibrations
have easily commanded
the last worried second
into a timeless trance
floating on a highway blur...
even past this instant
this heavenly glance

Comments

[Graham Glass]

Thanks for the poem Ben, I think it's great that you post this kind of thing!