Their Final Race
A figure, sickle in hand, wearing a dark cloak
approached a couple of woodland creatures.
He decided to choose them due to their features.
The Hare he noticed was a nimble and fast bloke,
and a Tortoise who would continue on no matter.
He offered them a race. (Something they’ve done before)
The grand prize to be announced at the end.
The finish line had yet to be decided, somewhere past the bend.
Hare needed to hear no more, ready to settle the score.
Tortoise agreed in his slow and quite manner.
With a wave of his sickle the race had begun
Hare as always is off like a flash nothing ahead but this goal
Tortoise picks up his claws and started his march, a stroll
Neither knew how long it was of a run,
till they would reach that finish banner.
Hare fly’s down the road nothing in his way
All sights around just a blur
Sounds ignored like a rambling slur
As his energy began to fade away
He decided it was time for a rest, by the water
The Tortoise with his steady pace
Looked around seeing all to be seen
A little butterfly at his side, the trees so green
Sounds of the birds chirp, water bubbling apace
Continuing on at his steady trotter
As day turns to night and just past the dawn
The Tortoise walks past the Hare
“Good morning my friend how do you fair”
The Hare startled awake, stretches with a yawn
“I’ll catch you Tortoise without bother”
Hare catches Tortoise with his quick gate
Suddenly a line appears and there he stands
The figure with sickle in hand.
“Ah you tied!” he says “Let’s learn the winner’s fate.”
“Welcome both of you to your death.” he said in calm candor
“This is no prize! I won this race!” said the Hare in a huff
“Oh but there is a prize that you both receive, which is the winner will depend.
Your prizes are the memories from this race. They will be all you have for now till times end”
Death said with a smirk. The Tortoise looking around lets out a puff.
Hare arguing it’s not fair, while Tortoise agrees and takes one last gander.
Hare realizing that he has nothing to remember,
No sight, sound, smell or friends from blind sight of his goal,
begins to ball uncontrollably as he enters his eternity alone, dark and cold.
Tortoise now resting by the water he saw, the sweet smells of September,
with his butterfly friend to talk to forever in such a pleasant manner.
Copyright © Adam Hapworth | Year Posted 2014
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