A Mortocycle

The sound of the motor
Once a siren of joy
Now brings only dread
Sick thoughts in my head

This too shall pass
Red fades into black
Black becoming white
New beginnings in sight

My rhyme is contrived
Words flowing like cheap wine
Repetition instead
Sick thoughts in my head

Doubt, Shame, and Hope
Write out each new note
To me it all sounds the same
Echoed pestilence through my brain.