There are many deaths

In this world of ours.

They flay us through the night,

And haunt our waking hours.

There are many lives,

Struggling on through pain,

Holding on to what they've lost,

For they've nothing left to gain.

We face trials,

Tribulations,

Make our names

In dying nations.

We walk a road

Narrow and harsh,

We find open ground

Only to be bogged down in the marsh.

We press on,

Ever fighting to survive,

Hoping against hope

That in this war we will thrive.

But oft times it's not the war

That brings about our end;

Nor is it the bloody blade

That off our limbs does rend.

No, more oft than not,

It's our lack of fight

That harms us,

The times when we can't see the light.

Yes, the things we cannot do

Are why we make a fuss-

It's not the fight, you see,

It's the wait that kills us.