Fatigue had set in
bones creaking ached.
Black heavy boots
with wet mud caked.
His eye on the prize.
His iron will staked.
On success at all costs.
Upwards he snaked.
Over sodden cold grounds.
Over earth rich mounds.
He would not be downed.
In the race to be crowned.
Breathless, bandaged and true
through dead woods he flew.
His mind on the prize.
Chasing one of those highs.
Heart beating a drum.
He knew not where from.
As he pounded the track.
Huge pack on his back.
He could see it just now
a sign over the brow.
With finish line in sight
ran with all his might.
To be first to cross
name on the trophy emboss
a winner at last.
Successfully vast.
thejrpc 