Personal Peace

Allow yourself to fly, your weightless.
Be nimble and quick on the field.
Covered in moistness, waters galore.
Dry is our enemy, water our ally.
Easing our fall from the sky, success in your grip.
Forever falling, wind and dampness in your hair.
Gravity is the only thing keeping you down.
Height is our friend, our savior.
Ignoring the pull to the earth.
Just long enough to catch the runaway prey.
Kill is our feeling as you slide from the sky.
Landing as though you’re a lion.
Marinating over you new success.
Nobody is above your version of heaven.
Only one thing satisfies your taste for more.
Playing. Launching your kill to your family of wolves.
Quickly running as though for your life.
Rapidly maneuvering the field like your home.
Speeding your stride to keep with your pack.
Then the transit from runner to killer.
Ultimately awaiting your moment of gratitude.
Vials of your prey’s blood cover the field like trophies.
When you fly now it will be the finally to extinction.
X-rated is your heavens password.
You’re the lion with the pack at your command.
Zest is the only flavor on your tongue.





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gymbabe This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Jul. 12, 2010 at 6:59 pm
Great extended metaphor and imagery you've got going, and nice word choice.  You must really like your sport.  I can relate.
 
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