Don't ask why

The cycle tyres

rubbed against

roads as smooth

as clean slate.

Pedaling with dreams

and a hidden heavy heart,

having to give up his

passion for the cause

of survival. To days

he was going to spend

at a rusty old desk,

his fingers typing

a harmonized rhythm off

a device which inked

words that didn’t

interest him.

How he wished

he could reproduce

those documents

with that same old

inconvenient device,

carve an identity

for himself the way

he always wanted to.

How he was made to

firmly believe that

there’d be less or
no fruition if he

chooses the road

of what he felt

was his own.

And thus, he never

looked back and

kept moving forth,

and forth,

and forth.