Slow not down

A pause to check the speed had blurs flitting past. No breaths spared twords delicate fancies, all must be purpose driven. The master game a white-knuckled madness. And what can be remedied at this juncture? What mis-step dance twords the door? The brass ring of a dawning-of-a- new-age was never grasped and spoiling for a fight sees no noble battle sail forth. What remains are sighs in the gloom, a push for quickend flight from the beast who knows my name, who ever casts glances my way, grasping at me with a look snide as fire blasted stones tumbling in a mine shaft. Lost echos, a tightening of the chest. Pick up the pace: for weariness leads to surrender.