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