Poem Hunter
The Racer

The Racer

With a lamp

in each eye

he ran the race

so miraculously,

amazing the ones who stood by;

each step fantastically fast

and the torch in his eyes did flame

against the wind, miraculously cold.

The mark seemed too near at times

and at times far

the stretch and strain of his muscles

and his sweat

all seemed to bear

the weight of humanity's

long forgotten rituals.

The veins of the earth feel the pain of an ancient itch

Turned wound, which the racist opens for fun and win

For he who wants to race against time has a clogging space

That mocks his run, with fire and fume.

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