My sonnet to track and field.
As the tartan-hot lava flows
The morale of the track prepares.
The heart of that runner longing low
Awaits the opponent that dares.
An inferno in his soul screams
While holding: Survival lies in that.
Approaching our track with that seen
Their only reality will be run flat.
Looking at that infant altering his cry,
The wheeling snowball engraves his crash.
Their internal propeller is only to die;
Accustomed my track stands the bash.
I will embrace the challenge. No more
Stagnation discharged to the psyche store.