The Little B*****dA Poem by RelicThe Little B*****d ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I wish I'd seen him in Fairmount with a Stetson hat, blue jeans, and boots; or with his collar turned up on a rainy day before he crashed through the intersection of folklore and fame. Before his sleek silver Spyder caught death in its web and a thousand pounds of metal disfigured his boyish smile. I'll bet those white lines on the road resembled the seconds counting down until the ferocious thunderclap of eternity. He roared through life faster than a silver Triumph motorcycle through the streets of Indiana. The Spyder is gone, his high school is gone, he's gone. Death replaced his lines, and that wasn't part of the script.
© 2024 RelicAuthor's Note
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Added on March 26, 2022Last Updated on November 9, 2024 Author
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