This potion of feat,
it sat somewhere
Sheepish and quiet
and he unaware
With fear inside,
but ears to the ground
He pursued his thing
without making a sound
The more he faltered,
he took no defeat
It (potion) seeped in more,
Adding stockpiles of feat.
Prompting, prodding
every inch of his way
Gathering steam
through night and day
& through the years,
he’s reached up here
With sickening effort,
now many endear
His young self speaks,
“this journey’s still on,
The urge still kicking
it can’t be gone”
And the poet’s a fool,
maybe only partly right
coz she’s known him less,
and that is alright
Coy and taciturn
Strong in the head
A repute he’s earned
That many may dread
Not a great talker,
And may seem brawn
But his gaze is sharp,
She wouldn’t get it wrong.
His wishes are horses,
and on them he rides
The dreams he has,
she may dare confide
That he wouldn’t stop seeking,
and his story’s half done
When others catch a breath,
his dark horses will run.