Drafting

A wheel behind a rider’s front
Intuitive scry to mission stunt
I won’t think too hard about
The words that fly from wary scout

Watch the trail or trees or sky
Disappear and fingers fly
Verse intuit the fiery brow
Inner peace does look here now

Figure eight a perfect scorn
Pages from whence ideals torn
Narrate the past to present fume
Don’t breathe too deep the poison tune

Final look is first and last
Fairly sure this burst well cast
Bobbling heads in candy hearts
Sugar instinct so pure, a farce