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from distant dimlit corners

of late night rally grounds

etched white by full moon pallor

a hand carved flute resounds


anachronistic trilling

draws knowing private smiles

around some far encampment

red cedar flute beguiles


enchanting and compelling

it breathes out deep souled groans

lifts hopeful wafting whispers

drops belly warming moans


enthroned on canvas campchair

black leathered biker sways

chained boots drive hot old rhythms

through courting tunes he plays


then breaking from tradition

rough gravel ridden voice

imploring chanted longing

outpours to reap her choice


growling song of passion for

the only one he's known

to touch this hollow loner

through all the oats he's sown


five final notes float smoky

hung questions in their aire

he shifts as if impatient

flings back wind tangled hair


vast moments pass in silence

her dove grey tent lies still

head bowed eyes closed he rises

rejection shreds his will


he turns away so slowly

dead flute clutched to his chest

he has no more to offer

since promising his best


pine fire light on patches

he steps into the black

howling pain inside his vest

cries there's no turning back


familiar thumping rumble

he's kicked his bike to life

roaring off to leave behind

the one he'd take to wife


inside a tent soft sighing

tears splashing on her hand

she prays somehow he'll realize

some day he'll understand


she could not chain him to her

rogues live life in the breeze

to let him bind his soul to hers

would kill him by degrees


therefore two hearts part broken

that could have been as one

to save each other future pain

such selfless acts are done

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