A mangled stallion at the bottom of a hill,
its lifeline in flame,
his time in the limelight passed.

The downward spiral catapulted by swiftness,
an error in judgment foregoing all innocence;
the finish line girder a tenth of an instant.

A crack of the whip, a drop of the hammer,
gripping the reins at ten and two.

Starting gun fired, we have ignition,
a telling stumble toward the starting line.

Lead a pony to water, but don’t let his driver drink.