for writing a book is not the aim
effort to put, with all details
never liked the writing game.
Pushing the pedal on the trail
elevation too much for the frail
maybe the body, maybe the bike
maybe the rain, or the psych
could be anything to blame.
You keep on going, not giving up
peak is the aim
hoping for the descent, when the grip can go lose
the rotation stops, the pressure is off
the wind goes through finally
but a mirage it is, with slight ascent
you ask yourself, what keeps you going.
The heavy accent interrupts your thought
the flow stops, to look up
to read the sound, distinct, subtle
full of expressions, yet broken
'I thought I had a chance'
'What'
'Nothing'
'What!'
'I thought I had a chance. With you.'
'You do'
Good enough to get it going.
The story is there
for 20 years of instances is a lot
some imagination to bring the flow
and add fiction for story to grow.
The travels and travails
people and spiritual highs
the wanderlust
in the mountains, sea and dust.
Still nothing on paper, ink untouched
the pool of blue, calm as ever
waiting to be disturbed, your mind
when you'll get your answer
pick up that pen, disturb and write
the greatest story of its kind.
THE NOVEL.
