. .prosodic arson. . . . . . .(header pic tribute to Zilon).

White and grey stone moss speckled and lichen covered. A massive outcropping of rock stands before me too old to be jagged, too youg to falter. A piece of the shield they call it, rising up from the ground piercing the earth. It once stood sharply; knif-like. Its old jagged shadow cuts my finger; a testament to my insignificance, the breavity of my life. It now lies rolling and smooth blanketed with verve; trees enshroud, roots entagle but this one large stone still stands prominant, shines through.
Whit means grip; traction for my feet, my tires. Black means agony; "Hike me, ride me but you've been warned."
Even my eyes slide down you without sufficient anchorage. You may be strong and unbreakable to me, still, you can't control the weather and where you have all the time in the world I have some time too.
Tomorrow I ride you dry. I'll soar, crash, fly and fall HARD on you and around you and in the air about you in search of that quick lit smile. You could very well be my death but that doesn't matter when you feed me the one true thrill.
I imagine you and I'll find you this summer so it will become a heart beat; time will reach speed and my heart will race all on it's own and we'll fall in love and forget humanity with adrenaline between us.
I'll hardly remember in split second time, but that feeling I'll never forget you gave to me because at the speed of excitement shorter is more momentous and nothing else mattters.