Poem: Riding Out the Pain

There’s a hum beneath the hurt,
a low engine turning over
even when the road’s all gravel
and the map’s been lost to rain.

You keep the throttle steady,
knuckles white, eyes raw,
because forward
is the only direction that still speaks.

The wind doesn’t ask permission —
it just tears at you,
peels away what can’t stay,
leaves you bare and burning clean.

Somewhere past this bend,
the air will soften,
the dawn will spill its quiet gold
on everything that survived.

And you —
you will not be the same,
but you will still be here,
engine warm,
heart alive,
riding out the pain.