He ran as if the smell of savage musk had filled his flaring nostrils,
as eyes ablaze he ripped the constant earth with greedy strides.
Ahead, ever-left bending lines traced his path,
Just as the distance, in its accumulation,
Traced ragged lines upon his brow.
Within his realm the muffled , rolling thunder of the crowd
but a nameless demon steed to ride
over the pitiless void,
while the finish stood like a painted harlot luring
him into the fields of desire and pain.
Early on he pressed deeply into the blooded pools of hope
his courage staggered by doubt
when an invisible stitching blade knifed into his side.
Yet the flashing spin of his heels rose once again,
And buff-chested with the dignity of an ermine-robed
Monarch, he cast his eye over the dominion he
Sought to rule once more.
Then off to the front he strode,
accepting, like a birthright, the unsparing challenge
of the sorcering alchemists behind,
Who, in their incantating rhythms, held the capacity to
Turn gold to silver or silver to bronze.
Yet unpalsied by the fear that the clean sweet strides of victory can,
In an instant, turn to ruinous stumbles,
He glided away in fluid freedom,
alone again where the wind was made.
And there, mounting the podium of broken wills,
For he had become the fire.