The Race

A race is not one if you fly alone Yet stand I vainly wishing you I own Wishing I did breach the finishing line Leaving my sparring friends behind, miles nine Groping hard in the dark scrambling for long. But nay, here they stand bloody eyed and strong Climbing every inch of you fast as me Ever crawling close to matrimony. Do I fight fair or turn a little wrong And slay my own kind with a slippery tongue? Or do I stand tall, unmoved and noble Amidst a varied lot, some named trouble? O make haste and take your pick of our feasts So I can own once more my long lost peace For what will be bothers much we blind beasts Unless tomorrow grants us what it sees.