Untitled: bicycle ride at night in the rain

At the end of the day when the streetlights come on I am the only person in the world left alive as I ride my bike down empty streets past homes where dead people sit in front of flickering television sets. Dark houses lit by ghosts on screens, flickering static and dead laughter, and dead tears, and dead hopes, and dead dreams. The dead sit on their couches and watch somebody else's dream and I ride on past them in their million hordes. Castle by castle. Keep by keep. I ride on into that never coming sleep. They sit behind their walls and the dead do not stir, do not dance, have no thoughts of sweat or toil or romance, but they sleep with wide open staring eyes having dreams poured into their dead sockets, into their dead and rotted minds. And I was dead once too, and so were you, but tonight if we ride, tonight if we stir the air in our passing, if we push these limbs once more up the graveyard hill we can feel the wind through our hair, hear the whir and clack of wheels, feel the cold bright steel, of our bicycles in the night, maybe we'll come to life and live again and breath again and dream again.