Walking up sorely and tired,

    Not because I was beaten but because I peservered;

    Chest high and admired,

    Not by others but by myself revered.

   Trying to move pass old pains,

    Surely with  strains.


   Peddling trough this struggle, the wheel turns

   Almost with some value I smile;

  Cremating the pain to ashes stashing it into urns.





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