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At Mile Thirteen
The crowd is gone.
Even the banners have tumbled,
damp scraps collapse against fences,
glued there by storm and breath.
Here, at mile thirteen,
the body speaks its own dialect:
ribs clattering like loose screen,
calves stuttering,
lungs threading sparks through the fabric
of my chest.
Still, I keep faith with motion.
Each footfall a defective prayer,
each muscle shivering,
but unwilling to betray me.
I remember the child I was,
running shoelaces through fields,
believing the world boundless,
believing endurance implied joy.
Now I know endurance
is the art of carrying grief
without letting it drown me.
It is learning to trust
that a horizon recedes
only to teach patience.
The audience disappears.
Even shadows seem to lag.
The only voice left
is the one I forge
between heartbeat and breath.
I do not race to conquer distance.
I race to prove
that I am still becoming
that even when torn open by fatigue,
the soul can strike a lantern
from pain.
And if the finish waits, let it wait.
Let it wait.
Here, in the thirteenth mile.
Copyright ©
Rowena Velasco
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