Schizodreamia

A cyclist rolls behind me
With a tire sound like a breeze.
I look around. Something's wrong.
The sight of the cyclist's wrong.

That sound could not have been him
With calves bulging, his waist slim,
Fat tires hardly whispering.
Leaves? Twigs? I keep listening.

I forget why I am not
I again, unhappy thought
Recycling through fallen years,
Riffling them like wind. One fear

That only voices suffer
Is that we're one another,
And none of us uniquely
One, winds whisper bleakly.