The Strength of the Weak
Jul 25, 2017 · 1 min read

The fight ain’t pretty, the fight goes long, the fight comes even to the small.
It goes past the city, it goes past the strong, and invades the quiets of us all.
It falters not to quiver the gentle, it regrets it not when babes die.
The fight hits the spirit and rattles the mental, and it looks, with a strength, in each eye.
It asks at the moment, “are you real or just wind?”, it asks like a song that just won’t hush.
It minds not a smidgeon if never you mend, and nothing, not death, makes it blush.
So. . . . replenish your heart chest, do exhale there your murmurs, go recatch your breath when a lull comes.
For on clamors that war chest, so endless its learners, and to slam back its tilt needs your fulcrums.

