Days have past spinning the words out for fun,
Bringing a notion of riding that has created a stronger
Sense of who I am besides a spandex fool waiting to crash.
Riding is not an effort it is what one does, and so to writing.
What storm could stop me, I made it when others were stuck.
And even if the pencil is a nub, the words stick in the head
Waiting to be put out at the chance of a scrap of paper.
A state of insecurity even commuting the same rate always early.
The floating waves of words crest and fly, become the spume and frost
Of all our hearts and rarely seen but we know the feel and pull of desire.
Between the lines is always the story of becoming and going,
So easy to see in others, until I catch my own reflection
Passing store front windows looking for a clock to mark time.