The heaviest load
The honourable path
Grudgingly exposed
The most futile of grafts.

The fruits of your labour
The will of your soul
Leave little to savour
But the chill of the old.

Efforts seem vain
Energy misplaced
Losing the most vital of ‘games’
In which no ‘victor’ can place.

Hang in too long
Could damage self great
Leave it too soon
Fear what the left have in wait.

The real race is not here
The real race is on hold
Though it’s steadily edging near
And this game, is a heavy, as it is old.

© Daniel Breslin