Who's racing them to pass their lights' front?
What's the reason the recites of logic,
follow their solitude, and thoughts along,
to thrall time's thump trying to control it?
Out on the faraway their freedom's gate,
they've built horizons that no soul can reach,
while the rewards of their adventive fate,
remind the sounds, of ocean waves' beseech.
For those who love was drawn a borderline
and roads' perseverance became their sign.
Upon the asphalt borderlines they ride,
who's right behind them and howls in the wind,
this is their stronghold as he comes beside,
eighteen wheelers' diesels they hear to scream.
Next to the road's borderline they care not,
but who's in leather bike-spreading outwards?
he harks the howls of diesels and a drop,
defines their crimson solitude's cut rose.
© G.V. 01-19-2013 All rights reserved