Finish Line

Lungs working overtime

trying to keep up

with his fastened pace.

He is soaked in sweat,

unbothered

by the accompanying odour.

Leading a stampede

of oversized elephants,

his feet stomp

in front of the others’.

With each step,

the ground shakes

and the audience cheers.

He can see the checkered flag

waving up and down

to the motion of his head.

Determination gleaming in his eyes:

he sprints like a cheetah

chasing its vulnerable prey,

wanting his tight abs

to rip the ribbon.

The others trail behind,

spectating the fall:

there is no ground

beyond the racing track.

He plummetted towards the rough sea

that repeatedly crashed onto

the sturdy cliff’s belly –

all of his hopes and dreams

vanished in the wake

of his blind vanity.

~

This poem first appeared on Steemit.