The Golden Apples

The Golden Apples

The race is run with feet so fleet
we blur and blue the lines we cross,
runners racing for their purpose, yet,
distraction takes the toll of whim, sweet
and filled with a hidden profit or loss
we cannot discern, our imaginations set
upon a fulcrumed fantasy of love's glint
that draws us to the side once too often
for us to overtake the challenger heart
that made the contest more than a sprint,
more than a merry footrace that would soften
a suitor's suit and reward us from the start
with the pure and purposeful joy of youth,
the light and flighting, fighting pursuit of truth.

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William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.