once i like the rage of love, <br />was a rock, and it rained. <br /> <br />once i got entangled into <br />the unthinkable lust <br />only felt, only felt <br />the lovely filth, <br />not the gentleness of <br />soft winds on my hair <br />the slow eternity of touch <br /> <br />oh, it arrives at the meaninglessness <br />of motorcycle motions arriving <br />at places where no one meets me <br />as a friend, but as a tool <br />with meaning attached only <br />to utility <br /> <br />one feels like a junk, <br />a broken tire, flat on the road <br />lacking air <br /> <br />everything stops, and you wait <br />and there is no one there <br /> <br />it is dark and the road is empty <br />and the mountainside is full of fog <br />and the wind howls like hungry dogs <br />looking for the prey...<br /><br />RIC S. BASTASA<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-little-story-2/
