With static breath,
The runner stumbles, shuffles, regains balance.
The torch bobs, the flame flickers.
It is heavy, the arm sags, the head drops.
The trek has drained color from the cheeks,
Curl from the lips,
Glint from the eyes,
Blood from the heart,
And even, spirit from the soul
Feet grumble in the dirt.
Neck complains of weight.
Air fails to reward the lungs.
Yet, the turn completed, straight away ahead.
The successor awaits,
Bouncing on toes,
Shaking the wrist.
There is color in the cheeks.
A curl, a glint, blood, and spirit.
The runner’s eyes drink,
The soul sighs, then surges.
The pace quickens.
Feet clap, arms wave, and the flame flares.
Both in motion.
One leans forward, reaching, giving.
The other, stretches back, waiting, accepting.
The runner shuffles to a halt.
Hands on knees, gasping.
Watching the other fade away.
A knowing grin thinks of the course ahead,
Watery eyes recall the one just traveled.
Limping, aching, the runner sees the torch
On a distant hill.
The heart sighs with contentment.
The soul aches with tears of pride.
The hand flexes, missing the weight.
The torch passed.
The fire still burns.
Passing the Torch is part of the Wordz collection.