Passing the Flame
They race not for the prize alone,
But to deliver what was known.
Each step completes what others start—
A rhythm shared from heart to heart.
The finish matters less than flow,
When time itself is passed below.
A mansion stands in soft decay,
Its beauty leans, its stones give way.
Yet still it whispers of the past—
The grace that dared too much, too fast.
From dust we learn what once was grand
Still leaves its shape upon the land.
