The Sprint

Who really knows the sprint? A chase you say?

Who’s chasing who, if its a sprint you’re on your own.

Sure you beat that light a final sprint all your own.

And push to not see the yellow trun red kidding yourself.

A pack of madness, of tired sore fools who burst

At the right time, a line ahead, theres a sprint.

When every twinge of mucsel has passed its sense

The cry the call to the last fiber go, go, go! AAAhhhhhg!

No more words can come from such a sprint and not knowing

The outcome is more telling of the effort, but you can’t let yourself

Down so hard to think but you did it.


The real sprint is always second place because then you know

You have to find less tangle or different timing. The beat of heart

Continues, booms you on, a cheer your own vowing next time.

We all make the half hearted sprints, like the light, or state line,

And peter out there is no grit in it. Some say its attrition but they don’t know

Its explosion, all giving to the moment obliterating everything else.

The sprint is a massive attention to power ratio calculated to percision.

Variables are only percived by the sprinter, a solo calculation unattainable

By shear force, so varied they can’t be written down. Infinate monkeys

With infinate time still unable to do the math. In seconds its over.

We need cameras to catch it, the eyes decieve, but the mind creates.

The sprint is a wonderous state.


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