Guest GoldenMaia Posted May 8, 2005 Share Posted May 8, 2005 Blood Sport Emblazoned with the kiss of the sun, Between his eyes, The imprint of flaming white Against his charcoal shadows. The son of champions Two years old, gleaming and sleek Long legs churning up the track. Young heart pounding in his chest! He splintered his first finish line In an explosion of flashbulbs. No amount of garlands Could upstage his dark beauty. No rain of petals could stall his wins. Galloping to the tune of coins falling into the winners purse, He made men rich! When did his decline begin? Was it his fall That undid his confidence? Or the wet field That twisted him beyond repair? Or, is it true that that which burns the brightest Fades away with equal speed? In the end, no hero’s welcome. No retirement in leafy green fields. Instead sunken hips and a harp of ribs to play Under an unkempt, greasy coat. Money greedily spent. Under a layer of ash and soot, He staggers through a crowd of Nameless, Faceless, Fallen champions. Where is he going with them? Those old winners of the cup All spent too soon. The weak, the used, the worthless. Piled into muddy boxes. Into the wind. He goes. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest skinnydog Posted May 8, 2005 Share Posted May 8, 2005 I'm sorry if this is rude, but I don't like it. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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