Eidola

Faith likes to hate life;
to make strife, and forge those
who scored low in Sunday school course loads.
It can be lonely, like a date night with Morse code:
“Dot dashed,” so I wait like a poor soul.

Ergo, straight-piped exhaust notes
score late nights on taut roads;
wine-slicked, as if brake lights are Bordeauxs.
I pace like it’s daylight, and play nice with torque droves.

But I get a muscular feeling under a crepuscular ceiling...

Too soon and finite
is a new moon by twilight;
so I make the best of it, take the rest of it,
and swoon to a flyby.

A pre-apex downshift
is found bliss,
and as you round it,
gas-pedal pound it
until the speed is a resounding announcement
of your arrival - like an outfit.

But the velocity isn’t my savior, mister...
Nor is it the three pedals, or the gated shifter;
it’s not because of the fear we’ll die, or the real wheel drive,
this is the real deal, guys...

I cut through state lines like steak knives cut through the charred mistakes of a hardened steak; from the Garden State to the massive, molten Carbon Lake; from Kokomo to the Poconos, I hope you know I wrote to show my only God is the open roads.

 
 
 
Mods: (I didn't forget this time) Sleepless Dreams & Mind Well.