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A Poem

Guest GoldenMaia

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Guest GoldenMaia

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.

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