Barefoot I would run over stinging sand,
Rocks with sharp edges
– Blind to pain –
Searching for escape,
Hurtling headlong toward success’s heady rush.
Now I’m less nimble.
I wait.
Surrender. Succumb.
Your sting has softened.
Today you’re old bruise –
A familiar discomfort,
The mere memory of a wound.
Glorious failure – my old friend.