by Nick Gisburne
How fast, how long, how softly can you run?
How cleanly, in the chaos of the chase?
In this, the darkest nightmare ever spun,
Are you the one the others must outpace?
We see the seamless order of your dreams,
A map, to fox the fabric of the hunt,
And, in this toxic stadium, it seems
Precision will propel you to the front.
Enough of this. We spit upon your guile,
Imagining the gods might show respect.
With every inch, with every tortured mile,
Success demands your triumph must be checked.
When life, inconsequential, is a game,
Capricious, we will scorn and snuff your flame.
