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The Finish Line
I do not trust the morning sun
To remove chills from my cold skin.
And yet I stand, all chances run,
To cross her line, yet never win.
The race lifelong, the dreams piled high,
I carried them upon my back.
Yet now, with naught left but to die,
See them as markers for my lack.
The lack of smiles, time spent alone.
The lack of trust, a wounded soul.
Plethoras of sin to atone,
Where only I could pay such toll.
Yet if it’s hell that waits on me,
(A man who’s paid most every price),
Let all the gathered crowd then see
‘Tis here I’ll find my paradise.
Silence, itself, a monument;
I wade her cold, suffering state
Paying all homage to Lament.
She’s closer now, yet still I wait.
Michael Anderson
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