She bade him stay; he walked away
and fired his Harley's ire.
She heard his rage in those chrome pipes
and in the burning tire.
He hit the street with throttle held;
he'd show her anger's skill;
and never did he turn to see
the cage with bulk to kill.
She buried him one rain drenched day
upon a green hillside
and on his cross, an albatross
hung for his ghost's last ride.
The day passed slow; while moon was low
the sky began to clear,
while still she knelt at that dirt mound
and spent her final tear.
Across the sky, a thousand Harleys--
all in black and chrome--
rumbled as the long-dead riders
called a brother home
The ground would shake and open up;
one more would ride the skies,
and ride to chase the demon spawn
of rage with glow'd red eyes.