Who's racing me to pass my lights' front?
What's the reason the controls of logic,
follow my solitude, and thoughts along,
to thrall time's thump trying to control it?
Out on the faraway's my freedom's gate,
I've built horizons that no soul can reach,
while the rewards of my adventive fate,
remind the sounds, of ocean waves' beseech.
For those who love was drawn a borderline
and roads' perseverance became their sign.
Upon the asphalt borderlines they ride,
who's right behind them and howls in the wind,
this is their stronghold as he comes beside,
eighteen wheelers' diesels they hear to scream.
Next to the road's borderline they care not,
but who's in leather bike-spreading outwards?
he harks the howls of diesels and a drop,
defines their crimson solitude's cut rose.
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