All quiet now against the roaring crowd,
Head down through the taunts and cheers.
Focus is what grips
A numb feeling of purpose and pride,
All doubt is cast, all cares aside.
It is now when the sprinting red eyed mornings will show their worth,
Pounding those weary feet,
Against the always awake and woken earth.
Skipping echo’s and razors the cracked dust ground,
While agile feet keep their beat and mirrors,
The guiding tone.
Rounds upon rounds sharpen the blade and arrow tip,
Burning the arms and fatten the lip.
Weeks of repetition ground down into a powder and paste,
While in the present is always bitter and venom the taste,
Is a future risen arm.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.