wind in his hair,
Throttle in his hand,
He pushes his iron horse to the brink of exostion.
The screaming of his heart
Matching only the low howl of the wind.
People mark his passing
Only noting the mask of
loneliness etched across his leathered face.
No words come with their question
Only a thundering silence with his presence.
finding no peace he returns to the road.
A man lost in an indifferent world.
Some call him savage.
some call him warrior.
few call him friend.
Patrick Maxey
March 11, 2002.
