Pale and ashen, failing passion, afraid.
Not sharp nor strong, a blunted prong, unsound.
Hearing the hum of hope begin to fade
Until only soft silence can be found.
Lightly slipping, slightly tipping, no fight.
Knowing glances, showing chances, are slim.
Fearing you will see that far tunnel's light,
Or even worse watch it wind down to dim.
Then at the last, the baton passed, along
to a brand new, unplanned for you, being.
Whose spirit has been let loose from the throng
And finds out that change can be so freeing.
Your mettle is but one link in the chain,
But when you lose sometimes you also gain.
Copyright © P L Ritz | Year Posted 2017
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