Secretariat unpoemed

SECRETARIAT

A fortress of power and elegance, a citadel of excellence and supremacy, a bastion of brawn and beauty, regal, spirited and breathing prowess, he stands trophied on a sunlit hilltop triply crowned, the eighth wonder of the world. His copper physique deeply cleft in bronze canyons, flashes at the thralled eye of the gawking sun which stalls its course to feast his sight. Muscle heaped atop muscle, his body is mapped and roped in arteries turgid as water hoses which trough lakes of rich red throughout the sustaining force. The very light competes to touch and to feel that body.
He shakes his great head, wilds his auburn mane, rears up his fistic hooves, speaks out to the feuding gods, and then cants kingly down the side of the hill, the enamored sunlight seeming to follow behind. In the distance he spies an Olympic field of fabulous thoroughbreds sailing beautifully away. He grows his pace to a volant speed, catches the entire field and surpasses them all. Ten, fifteen, twenty lengths, the field, like breath on glass evaporating away, he transforms into a feral locomotive, his smoking hooves pound the surface of the passing world and stir commotion in the mansions of deep within. Twenty-five, thirty, the field behind now shrunken to a scurry of mice, the he shuffles off the coils of mortality and goes! He is Secretariat. He has escaped the pages of ancient mythology, and the gods are still looking for him.