Ghosts in the Exhaust

The V-twin growls like distant thunder,  

its pulse a hymn of second chances.  

Heavy bikes, oil dripping like open veins,  

carry the weight of old battles home.  

Not about chrome or the fastest line,  

but the grip of memory on the throttle.  

Post-war shadows etched into leather seats,  

ghosts riding pillion, uninvited but familiar.  

Japanese imports waited sleek and clean,  

precision painted into every tightened bolt.  

But freedom isn’t a spec sheet or rebuild;  

it’s the ache of scars meeting steel.  

Veterans riding felt engines like heartbeats,  

Harleys heavy with patriotism or protest.  

Worn tires spinning against the establishment,  

as camaraderie clashed with the open road.  

What they rode wasn’t just machinery,  

but the continuation of belonging,  

smoke curling like history in the wind,  

their past still vibrating in low revs.