The Race

He could see the finish line only a half-mile away,

a ribbon of red relief within reach.

Surrounded by competitors vying for the victory,

the first to cross, the first to preach.

To orate feelings of pride and rejuvenation;

to own the soapbox deservedly so.

So many steps remained ahead of him,

but not as many as he perceived to go.

At one point in his life, the runner had strived.

Hackneyed opponents stood not a chance,

nor did they approach him in effort or desire.

Race after race, up and down hills and valleys,

he had found success and success bred more.

Until the Sunday race when his legs gave out;

he fell to the dewey grass in a hurry,

agony crept quickly over his ailing body.

All around him former flailing finishers passed him,

seeing a potential victory for the first time.

From that moment, writhing on the cold ground,

watching his opponents pass him by,

he could not regain his footing, not on that day,

nor for the years following.

Regardless of the training, the conditioning, and the effort,

he continued to run scared, scared of the next slip.

Until today, when flashes of his former self excited him.

His legs felt light, his lungs refilled easily.

The stride was measured and composed,

his desire was unmatched again.

Down the final stretch he bounded, passing two, then one,

the lead all his with but a few steps left.

He looked at the beautiful sky, then down,

seeing the finish line so closely to his gait.

He smiled comfortably for the first time in years,

feeling as though the race was won.

But on the final stride, he heard a snap,

and down he went in a crying heap.

No one passed him, he waited to see;

everyone was gone, leaving him be.

They said they found him coldly lying next to his bed,

his mind and heart never able to wed.