This is mine:
Marathon of Juvenile Delusions
Standing by the starting line
You have but ten and four
Mind jaded, thoughts divine
With a predetermined score
Then it goes with a fired shot
You let your body lead
And though you wait, when it does not
You feel a sinking creed
At thirteen point one, through gasps of air
Strained limbs fail and give
So you retire like the idle hare
Loose faith and will to live
But from your seat, you watch them try
Through clenched jaws and muscles; pain
Those who don’t, have reached their high
Your cheeks burn too, for shame
Under such light, your endeavor seems weak
Defeat from lack of traction?
Deciding against, you change or tweak
A better course of action
Again you find you’re at that line
You have near ten and eight
But now the hurdle comes from time
And you fear you are too late
Steadied breath, and rhythm made
You startle at your pace
Passing whom you once admired
You become. Won. Still race,
For when the ribbon greets your chest
It’s then you apprehend
To be if not, then close, the best
You run, but meet no end.
