Pieces of me keep falling off. Like an overused machine, I find parts to future prospects in the grass. Worn. Cracked. Trampled by life.
My primer is slowly detaching from the body of my youth, as I frantically pump in any elixirs that worked in the past.
I push forward, coughing through polluted expectations, trying to stay within the lines.
Then one back wheel stops propelling along in time so that I waltz sideways into forces of nature, head down against the straight-line winds of loss and age.
Losing precious momentum, I find myself wandering all over my world, cutting short where I shouldn’t, but leaving thickets of doubt to grow unchecked.
Eventually, I’ll end up in the garage, undrained, unwinterized. Obsolete.
Hoping on the spark of a prayer that I start up in the spring.