Colossal, nay gargantuan he speeds across the plain,
In a bucket of perfect filigree he carries his second brain,
His efforts, though magnificent are generally in vain,
While the song he sings is haunting,
Like a subtle silver flame.
The bicycle he rides upon is made of jet and gold,
The bell upon the handlebars exciting when it's told,
Because it tells of distances astonishingly old,
The sound of its extolling both indifferent and cold.
Far from the realms of anthracite his phosphorescent track
Stretches out behind him though he never can look back
Through complex crystalline spectacles kept in a nebulous sack,
Woven of possibilities embossed with a sense of lack.
Elemental optimism draws him on his way,
Through fields of susceptible somnolence where inelegant cattle play,
And he adopts an indifferent expression, for he has nothing useful to say
To creatures whose subtle persistence might lead his heart astray.
The night falls like a catastrophe, the horizon drawing near,
He pedals down the edge of time, with little time to fear,
The chiming of his intellect, or so it would appear,
Takes him over the edge, and into another year.
In a bucket of perfect filigree he carries his second brain,
His efforts, though magnificent are generally in vain,
While the song he sings is haunting,
Like a subtle silver flame.
The bicycle he rides upon is made of jet and gold,
The bell upon the handlebars exciting when it's told,
Because it tells of distances astonishingly old,
The sound of its extolling both indifferent and cold.
Far from the realms of anthracite his phosphorescent track
Stretches out behind him though he never can look back
Through complex crystalline spectacles kept in a nebulous sack,
Woven of possibilities embossed with a sense of lack.
Elemental optimism draws him on his way,
Through fields of susceptible somnolence where inelegant cattle play,
And he adopts an indifferent expression, for he has nothing useful to say
To creatures whose subtle persistence might lead his heart astray.
The night falls like a catastrophe, the horizon drawing near,
He pedals down the edge of time, with little time to fear,
The chiming of his intellect, or so it would appear,
Takes him over the edge, and into another year.
