Astride her iron horse hugging broken dashed lines,
Wind singing through her wheels, can this be a crime?
Running away? No she’s just on the move.
She’s searching for her own perfect groove.
It’s been said, “She will ride till she’s dead,
The asphalt will be her last hard bed.”
The wind speaks to her, and the lines rush by.
Her mind cracks open, the sky begins to cry.
Onward she rides, not wanting to look back,
The throttle she twists, there can be no slack.
Her future lies ahead, her past is dead,
What the hell is in her belly that must be fed?
She’s been known to say her life is static…
Why then must she live it like an addict?
The miles rush by past deserts, past lakes…
Past all the posers and the fakes,
The ride continues, she’s on the move,
She’s still searching for her own perfect groove.