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February Flex
Between the iron's echo, seven moons have shaped
this flesh to tempered steel—each rep a whispered vow,
a calculus of sweat where discipline escapes
the ghost of who I was. The mirror shows me now:
a shadow split in two—one clawing from the past,
one carving forward, raw, through protein, rest, and grind.
The weights don’t judge the why, just measure what will last:
this body, not a shrine, but proof of mind aligned
with mornings yet to come. I lift what time can’t hold—
not abs or arms, but will, the ache beneath the bone
that asks, "What’s worth the pain?" The answer’s still unrolled:
to outlift doubt, to build a self I’ve never known.
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Copyright ©
I.A. Ryd
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