Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
From Dulce et Decorum Est, by Wilfred Owen
that ridge –
or you just might feel what you’re running from.
Lest your demons catch up with you,
and you see how much of a piece of shit you really are.
So you double your pace,
out of cadence.
out of order.
out of fear.
When will it ever stop?
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