Galloping without control.
The feeling is good; free.
Wind playing violent games with your hair,
Blurs of colours passing; barely in sight.
Hearts are heard racing off the grounds,
Thuds of hooves are felt demanding dirt to fly from the ground,
Breathes come often, as if reaching to hold their place.
Out in front is what's desired,
If not obtained, all will race.
To be the first to encounter unknown.
To hop a tree fallen;
Across a creek;
Then higher and further,
Faster and harder,
Growing near the end.
Everyone skids to a halt.
Realization covers all faces,
As a cliff is reached, with no way down.
No way around, no way at all,
Recollection of the race enters all minds.
The wind stinging tearful eyes,
Wonders of colour, unseen.
Hearts striving in pain,
Sounds drowned by goals,
Breathes getting knocked away.
Everything was rushed,
Nothing was appreciated.
Now it's all gone.
This feeling is bad; empty.
We've galloped without control.