Challengers

» I never set out with the goal of winning, but to find the spark within,
bergamot sharp as the clarity that cuts through the fog of every doubt, as sharp as pride.
The bitter taste of rhubarb, of competition, young hearts twisted in struggle,
chasing not trophies but themselves, in a breath that fades away.

An aquatic silence floats — cold and distant in the chaos of the race.
Roots of cedar hold together unknown foundations,
the warmth of sandalwood wraps around the cracks of a soul still growing.
«

– Mark Buxton –