Friday, June 15, 2012


A race to the finish is his fair game,
And he finds you lacking in spirit, tame.
He urges on the horse underneath him,
And even compels him in water, swim.
Yet you do hold your breath at the sight, make
For land without a backward glance, afright
Of what may occur without due thought; take
Notice of your surroundings, of the night,
And of the sensations of the cold air
That through your lungs stretches a new made tear.
But he is already in, and across,
Without a thought did he show you whose boss.
Thus races are won with ease and content,
But lives are spared through minds that are made bent.

                    Polarity, (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012

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