Under me is a board with small wheels.
As I shoot down toward the sea
in this mountain town.
The walls speak to me.
The paint whispers.
The concrete whistles.
Missing pedestrians by inches.
Burning the steep alleys as I...
Churn down them.
(metaphoric offensive, simonsive)
Alerting the provokative flock
on the roof nearby with the
with cat scowl of my wheels.
Yes I can see the shimmer
and the wharves.
(simon´s style zero intentional rhyming heroe)
The far off Islands
now begin to draw themselves
in yummy detail.
(haiku fiddle in the middle)
As I near gradient´s end
I bid you not to befriend illusion.
For the pain in falling is mere pretence.
Though be wary the joy in it´s amusing.
(limerick tone get your own)
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