There's a short hill ahead
And your little motorbike
Is low on gas and humming
Unnaturally and you know
You won't make it, you won't
Crest the hill and cruise down
The other side but instead
You'll get stuck on the incline
And have to hoof it and you don't
Much mind because you're young
And it's near evening and you're high and
The world is open to you and so
Much is possible and still some
Is even new and you're happy
To have a reason to use your legs
But just as you're thinking this
You realize you're not that young.
And your knee is hurt and you're
High on painkillers and have been
For too long and new is just a feeling
Good drugs give when you're fresh
In the cycle, before it's a dope-sick
Bath every morning and anger and
Sadness and worthless you
At the center of it all.
And then, by some miracle, you crest
The hill and fading sunlight
Greets you like an old friend,
Soft and kind and ushering in
A sense of forgetfulness.
The motorbike kicks on,
Sips fumes downhill and you allow
The golden hills and the molten coin
Of sun to arrest you some more,
To pull you away from thought
And into the brilliance of feeling.
The wind, the cooling day–
Who's sure they will make it?
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