The Race

Pain is not a garment changed with whims of a fashion style Its heavy, razor edges are both permanent and vile A torture made of illness, loss, of injury, regret That churns and burns and rips the flesh til bloody, sticky, wet. The greatest fighters find the strength to see beyond distress With twisted frames they stagger on, weak battle cries of "yes" When all their body wants to say is "Quit! Give Up! Give in!" But heroes answer back and use the strength that lies within. Shadows cannot appear unless there is a source of light. Victories only come when we have made it through the fight. Sometimes the winner doesn't wear a laurel on his head, The greatest warriors show strength by climbing out of bed. To win the race with perfect legs is naught of exception But just to vie at a crawl deserves a knight's reception.