Poezja

Rolling, the thundered energy,
Extended and converted, half pipe glide,
The glossy swath of air, thick,
 Nestles into the pores, hands tight, locked,
To gears a-shifting and twisting,
Metal chains like messy first love,
A cascading avalanche of work.
 
The eyes, they’re set, piercing through,
The light spectrums, summers delectable’s.
 Blue sky, white tarp, no tent,
No breathe wasted in humid life.
 
And the pavement, laid down attainment,
To those who’ll rub the sticks together,
And shelter the birth of their ember,
To erect the eventual flame,
Of a soul, elastic, untamed.
True freedom, if we must give this a name.