Thursday, June 21, 2012

Come Again

Running never did sit well with me, so
Much speed, such a pace, a gift of showman
Ship I never have seen anywhere. Though
While the distance appeals not, for I ran
It as a child, or the hurdle that makes
lite of a man's gravity, his own rite
Taken at will for what gravity takes,
Or the dash that becomes a horrid fright,
For men do fall and break themselves upon
Their wasteful speed, there is one race that I love,
One race that becomes a wordsmith, outdone
By generosity for which they strove.
The relay, by which men do overcome
The tedium of doubt and suspicion. 

                    Come Again? (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012

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