To your power and glory:

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.

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