Oleg Borisov Poet Rhyme

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.

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Sara Kendrick July 22, 2012 at 1:51 PM Enjoyed reading this creative and expressive work..That was one more bike ride..Sara Oleg Borisov July 23, 2012 at 2:04 AM Thank you, Sara! I enjoy riding my bike this summer :^)

Harry Horsman May 9, 2012 at 8:17 AM really like this Aleh, love the rhyme and the flow of the poem, also the break in sp'rit. harry Oleg Borisov May 10, 2012 at 2:21 AM thanks Harry, im glad you appreciate it.

Poet Destroyer A March 22, 2012 at 5:56 AM Aleh, i like your metaphors in your poems,,, especially the image of coppice's on potholes... no matter the hill... your doing a good job not stopping the race... have yourself a wonderful day~LUV*PD Oleg Borisov March 22, 2012 at 6:19 AM Thank you, dear Poet, im glad you like it.