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The Race

Lungs are beginning to burn;
The thickening air breathes like molasses
Lusting for a tranquil inhalation,
But every gasp proves relief passes.

Is this not what’s expected?
It is a narrow path where few surmount.
But while contending thus far without halt,
To give up now would prove to discount.

Sure there’s thoughts, what’s left behind,
Undoubtable urges to dulcify.
But the visceral hope forges ahead,
And Is challenged by fear, doubt, and lies.

The body weighted with these.
Muscles tighten while beseeching to quit.
This cannot be an option, nor a thought,
Fixating eyes, on His truth, His writ.

There’s and end to this struggle,
A redemption beyond what is to know.
So find the second wind, don’t dare forget,
The end glory is worth every blow.

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