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,” and 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 soon do a flyby.

A pre-apex downshift- wait, where’s second?!? Found it!
Anyway, a pre-apex downshift is found bliss, and as you round it, gas-pedal pound it
until the speed is like insanity plus cow tits (udder nonsense)

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 rear wheel drive,
this is the real deal, guys...
I cut 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.