The Race
A race is not one if you
fly alone
Yet stand I vainly wishing
you I own
Wishing I did breach the
finishing line
Leaving my sparring friends
behind, miles nine
Groping hard in the dark
scrambling for long.
But nay, here they stand
bloody eyed and
strong
Climbing every inch of you
fast as me
Ever crawling close to
matrimony.
Do I fight fair or turn a little
wrong
And slay my own kind with a
slippery tongue?
Or do I stand tall, unmoved
and noble
Amidst a varied lot, some
named trouble?
O make haste and take your
pick of our feasts
So I can own once more my
long lost peace
For what will be bothers
much we blind beasts
Unless tomorrow grants us
what it sees.
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