by Patrick Fox

Leaning over
this desk,
you would think
I was all marble;
statue of a man
lost in contemplation,
carved out to be
But there are hues
of purple, Olympic
rings under each
eye that make
marathons of the
circles my head is
spinning, the lamplight
torch that never
burns out though
my limbs and will
are ready to give,
breath heavy from
taking strides,
the deadlines
spur me on.
A horse will run
until it dies.

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