Sense, Within

A silent cry,
A loud silence,
Few rippled memories,
Few more in a state of reconstruction. 

A broken pedal,
Tires, little flattened,
At times over grass, some-other over mud,
On my bicycle, without any urgency of progression.

Blowing winds,
Few drops of rain, just before a drizzle,
Specs taken off, thrown far away,
Tired of cleaning them, tired of interruption.

Cause dreams were never about the visible routes.