The Wait
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.
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