The Course

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Thunder rolls over the land,

Tightening my hand;

Fast as wild fire,

Trailblazing not to tire;

Three obstacles stand in my way,

Only to go around as play;

Breathing not a necessity,

Sloths are a rarity;

Two legs are no match for four,

Only to go through the door;

Drum beats sound,

Not only on the ground;

Slide to a hault,

Bodies under assault.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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