He ran as if the savage smell of 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,

etched 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.

Still, on he pressed 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 he strode, accepting, like a birthright,

The unsparing challenge of the sorcering alchemists behind,

Who, in their incanting rhythms, held the capacity

To turn gold to silver or silver to bronze.

Yet unpalsied by the fear that 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,

He knew.

For he had become the fire.

END