Passion
Have you ever known passion to pose for a picture?
Surging and thrashing its head,
it breaks away from the cities of the dead
into a wilderness of its own make.
Why do you run?
Why do you thrust your face
in the burning pupil of the sun,
when adrenaline shoots through your system
like a mystic’s fever,
rendering all in a twirl?
We move to break free.
We flee
across the mud, the snow, the stone,
and the hot tarmac seething
under our feet.
Our race is our own; it’s customised.
We battle our battle with our battling lives.
That
is the face of will,
the indomitable veneer
of frailty.
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Categories: Poems
Nice. I wonder what inspired you to write something like this.
I was tryin to suck up to my program director. She loves running.
hahahaa…ur hilarious! lol…no haal!
nice poem btw!
Very nice.
“Our race is our own; it’s customised.
We battle our battle with our battling lives.”
Absolutely brilliant!
Words like ‘hedonism’ come to mind.
I agree. I’m brilliant and hilarious.
But why hedonism? I thought hedonism was love of pleasure…
it is…running…endorphins…pleasure…I’m not the doctor here, dude.
BUT!! you’re right….it’s not the love of pleasure literally, but frivolity and frolic and what not… it just popped into my head. this person who loves to run and all seems too full of himself/herself, that’s why i thought of it.
“erson who loves to run and all seems too full of himself/herself”
Bah, humbug!