The Face of Mo Farah

No emotion spared; all taken,
Compressed into a diamond skull,
Then pushed out through a boyish, toothy gape.
Ever widening, exultant but curdling,
The anticipation worse than pain.
Taut skin bronzed by metallic avarice,
Silvered by allied shoals at the sidelines,
Hotter and brighter than a gold furnace,
While white chalk tingles at the end.

But as he strikes gold the eyes remain peeled,
Ripe lychee in the floodlights,
Quivering for the empirical, digital confirmation
Of a simple dream.
Forget their cries.
In this sickening vacuum of certainty,
Between fact and chronicle,
Time’s razor-edged shank
Swings like barbed weapons in the dark,
Awaiting nothing but the purest recognition,
The purest affirmation:
The truth.