RACING, CRASHING, POUNDING

The rhythmical thrashing, a surge in all;
The pace is sped up without an ending.
The feel: it seems to take a slight fall;
Racing: it's never been this deafening.
Crashing, pounding, it's complete in the blood,
Yet the power still feels useless...Creepy...
Is it horses' rhythmical pounding thud?
Or is it a black deathless heart that's breathing?
Lovely is how some shall prefer it;
He sees not why, he likes melancholy;
Then again and all will ever just fit,
Not all can see it as he,...quite holy.
It is the voices and fears of men's plight;
It's what you call music, an awesome sight.