I am
a freak
my Bike does squeak.
Its rusted left-hand brake.

Fix
the seat,
and repair the weak
Rusted left-hand brake.

It’s dripping;
a drool
of oil leak.
Its greasy left-hand brake.

Birds call back
through a mouth they lack
To my noisy left-hand brake.

Their vapid squawk
My Bike does mock,
With that rattling left-hand brake

It’s broken
and screeching
and my life is depleting
Out that spoken left-hand brake.  

My Bike calls forward
each sound, more onward
While the feathered ones call for love,

My Bike calls for distance,
And the Future,
And the Purpose,

And the Birds, my Bike is above.