A marathon is not enough for you.
You shun most courses, saying they’re too short,
and run fifty-mile races, coming through
in under-seven-minute times. Your sport
is like your heart: fixed on a distant mark,
some far-off finish line, some nameless goal.
You left me in the distance, in the dark,
puzzled to watch you sprint away your soul.
David W. Landrum
If you've any comments on this poem, David W. Landrum would be pleased to hear them.