Thursday, November 15, 2007

he rips till he is R.I.P

the wind whispers
and he fly his metal steed
where eagles dare, he roams
chasing the midnight sun
playing hide and seek with clouds
singing on top of his voice
his growling exhaust note
the smell of burned rubber
sweet fatigue of unbridled passion
the soul of rebel
the metal made of sin and sweat
the molten tarmac, the numb hands
the lashing rain, the scorching sun
the howling crowd, the lone water well
he grips, breaks and rips again
dancing with the devil
touching the cheek of death
saying a prayer and keeping a steady hand
he rips till he is R.I.P


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Meghna said...

Nice poem. I like the words you use. they are really fabulous!
Thanks for dropping by my site! :D

Ranjani said...

Thanks for the comment, I'm glad you liked my's actually the first poem I've written in maybe four years...I just felt inspired :D. Your poem is very nice too; I really like the repetition of the "s" sound helps the reader feel the whispering wind, the lashing rain, etc.