The Race
The gust of wind, the twist of pedals,
the race till sunset, with no medals.
My way will be on even roads
or in a coppice on potholes.
The Sun's zenith, there is no grief,
the wheels, embracing the relief,
will bear me uphill and downhill.
They break my sp'rit to be revealed.
The day for long, the night not soon,
each mile is dear on the route.
Press on my pedals in a distance
to be delayed death by resistance.
Copyright © Oleg Borisov | Year Posted 2012
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