The Runners

Either sissors of freckled white
or a windmill of ebony arms
churning
churning
the air into a thickened warm mass
machine like runners
young and perfect
leave others
younger, slower
behind in their wake of sweat and intensity

Glorious day for one, only one
Whose body, sculpted like young gods
has overcome time itself
ticking digitally against their effort
The followers
Those washed ashore by the victors wake
no less valiant in their Herculean effort

Pride
Pride follows effort
Pride follows those who strive
Not only those who wear the elusive victors crown