Monday, September 17, 2007

RIP till 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

Courtesy Anoop -XH-

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