Throttle Dirge
by Buck Branson

I roll on the throttle and feel the surge as wild and driving as a primal urge. The blacktop before me has a life of its own; it beckons me forward like lovers I’ve known.

I lean into curves like the swell of hips and the narrow bridges like puckered lips. Excitement builds as I round each curve; how far can I push it if I have the nerve?

Sparks are flying as I make the turns, the pipes are scraping and the asphalt burns. I push the limits of my bike and skill, as the V-Twin engine drinks it’s fill.

Life holds no wonder without the ride; it’s hollow and empty with nothing inside, and the warm amber whiskey, it takes me away to places I’ve been but couldn’t stay.

So I revere the throttle and the thrill it brings, and the whiskey that promises angel’s wings; the end will be fast, with no time to linger, when that terrible Reaper points his finger.

Do I fear his touch? No, not at all!

He reaches for me like a siren’s call, and from the carnage my soul will fly, then we’ll ride forever, my lover and I. But she does not care; she does not feel, for I am flesh and she is steel, so I’ll lavish her with paint and chrome till a host of angels takes me home.

--contributed by Buckshot