learning to fly without wings

I am no stranger to the ground.
It greets me—
like an old friend,
with a harsh pat on the back
every time I attempt to defy gravity
on two spinning wheels.

The pavement is a canvas
where my knees paint
streaks of crimson resolve,
each scar a stanza
of stubborn perseverance.

I wobble, a fledgling
taking its first unsure leap
from the nest—
the wind whispers tales
of flight and freedom,
tales I yearn to live.

With every fall,
the earth murmurs secrets
of resilience to my palms,
grit embedded like stardust
in the lines of my destiny.

I rise,
a little more steel woven
into the sinews of my spirit,
a patchwork of bruises
blooming like badges of honor.

The bike, a steed of steel and rubber,
bears me—
not a knight, but a squire
in the court of asphalt and ambition.

I pedal,
a symphony of motion and hope,
the rhythm irregular,
a heartbeat racing towards
the crescendo of balance.

And when I finally glide,
the world blurs into streaks
of color and light—
a metaphysical conceit,
where I am both the painter
and the masterpiece.

In this dance of wheels and will,
I find poetry in motion,
a metaphor for life's ride—
each tumble a verse,
each triumph a chorus,
in the epic of learning to fly
without wings.