Life in Technicolor – Part VIII
By Brandon Palzkill
Everyone said he was crazy
for running the race;
out of shape, past his prime.
He’d run for miles;
fourteen… or was it fifteen?
He had to keep going;
he couldn’t stop;
couldn’t let himself give up.
Had to run… had to keep going…
It was all that he had left;
to cover those last few miles,
to glide across that finish line;
a desperately needed win
in his needlessly losing life.
He’d failed completely,
beyond the war,
even as he schemed to succeed;
his truly, madly, deeply
had gone;
flown away; lost to the winds;
sacrificed in his Pyrrhic quest
for financial gratification.
Nearly there… almost there…
She left him behind
and his green false security
became a meaningless trifle,
to be squandered away
until he had nothing…
except the road ahead.
He ran to cross his final miles,
old in years, young in will,
and abandoned all thoughts
of pain and sickness
as the path disappeared
beneath his feet.
Forward… forward…
He ignored the warning
creeping up his arm.
He lost his breath,
but didn’t let that slow him.
He would cross that finish
line;
nothing would stop him;
nothing would hold him back.
Yards to go… feet away…
nearly there… slowing down…
stumbling, trying to catch his breath…
he crashed and fell, inches away…
he rolled… he’s in…
it’s over… he did it…
a small win; an important victory;
a milestone to end the day.
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