It is apparent that within the "Biker Culture" death holds a significant place. Every society proffers deep spiritual meaning to the end of life as we understand it. It seems that every civilization universally see’s the loss of their brothers and enemies as a mystery to be solved with sacrament, meditation and/or mysticism. Look at the art of the Biker if you need visual evidence. Skulls, skeletons and images of an afterlife bedeck our bodies and our bikes. From heaven to hell and everywhere between lost bikers are depicted locked to their lifestyle or lost to it. As a reflection of those visions our literature reflects those fears and raptures morosely or with jubilation.
I've said before I tend to direct my work toward the yarn, rather than a spill of passion to paper. I try to do this in a fashion that will spark emotion or otherwise cause the hair on the back of the neck to stand up a little. I don’t know that the following will do that for anyone, but in the process of constructing it I required a great deal of visualization. Is it about death? You betcha!
A growl a tremor an impetus moves me
Caught in the motion of immediacy, traumatized by the glow; impeded.
What is this place of betrayal of chaos of solitude?
No feelings, no cold, no light, no dark. Rapt by fear trembling; life ceded.
Breath lost, weight gone, normalcy a fugitive, I quiver.
Gripped by cold hands; motion stolen. “Who takes me?” I demand.
“Who dares rip me from this dream?”
“Who arrests this audacious soul, what object usurps my command?
A light, nay shadow in shadow holds me cold
Calluses fixed to grip familiar steel no longer do I rule
Legs heated by her tender body no longer rest in my domain
Eyes prospect for another, an entity for whom this vessel is but a tool.