We ride with the kind of silence that comes only after betrayal,
helmets pitted, lenses scratched, the tarnish of time on every bolt and buckle,
and I flick my gaze over the dunes not for direction but for signs—
a break in the wind, a shadow that moves wrong,
a feeling that pulses in my ribs louder than the engine.
The maps tore long ago, ripped by storms and choices,
but we kept moving, because it isn’t the destination that calls
so much as the gravel spinning beneath our wheels,
the swoop of freedom just before the fall,
and the way our fingers still reach out
even when we know the cost could be blood or exile
or one more comrade fading into smoke.
We are rebels only because we remember
what it felt like to matter,
to push against the system until the system cracked,
to steal back joy even as the world punished us for wanting it.
And so we charge into the fire-smeared sky
not for victory, not for vengeance,
but because speed and dust are the only languages
left to those who dare to live
when everyone else has chosen to kneel.
About the Creator
Diane Foster
I’m a professional writer, proofreader, and all-round online entrepreneur, UK. I’m married to a rock star who had his long-awaited liver transplant in August 2025.
When not working, you’ll find me with a glass of wine, immersed in poetry.
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Comments (2)
I guess that means I cannot be called a rebel. I can't remember the last time I thought I mattered. But godspeed to those who do.
Hard to choose to kneel after reading something so powerful and inspiring. This piece was dripping with wisdom and fine polished lines, vivid in imagery and a clear direction. Well done, I love this Diane. 👌🏽♥️