If A Bike Falls In The Forest, Maybe No One Has To Know

In this moment I could fly I think
am flying
but could continue. Take off and soar into the heavens.
In a space of time far less than the beating of a finch's wing I know the secrets of the universe
poured out for me to see all along the gravel, getting closer and closer.
In a moment the gravel will be on me, around me, in me, but not now.
Now I am King of the Universe, ruler of all that I see.
High on a throne of pure adrenaline and terror-turned-euphoria I sit, basking in the glory of me.
Not long now. The gravel approaches like revolutionaries waiting to dethrone their king;
an uprising of the proletariat of gravity and pain.
Shredded skin, like cheese after a half-swipe of the grater.
Bright red fruit-punch fluid/embedded rocks like pizza toppings half buried in said cheese.
The time for these things will come, but it has not yet arrived.

The King makes his last graceful movement.
Curls like a tumbling dancer as he rolls across the ground, textbook.
A 747 landing in Paris, just as it has hundreds of times before. A pro.

Now the peasants revolt, and the pizza imagery finds fruition.