The bitter taste of fear, acidic,
The sweat of nervousness across the brow,
The harsh intake of a cigarette,
The building regret of that sullen vow.
Word by word he recounts his promise,
Those harrowing lines echo in force,
Yet the storm clouds ahead are amiable,
Against the pit of depression if he retracts his course.
A deep ache throbs his bones,
A dark determination dilates his pupils,
His passionate desire ebbs to and fro,
Yet every step, his crave quadruples.
The pinnacle of the throng,
Yet merely a droplet of water against natures vexation,
He conquers, who endures,
The path of retreat crowded by the body of temptation.
A silhouette illuminated,
A Messiah to the want of change,
Generations of unblinking eyes,
Contribute to his unwavering pace.
One can not stumble a mountain,
The passing of pebbles leads to certain success,
To achieve the impossible,
One must sacrifice their spirit to those they detest.
By Ben Teuten
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