Accustomed I’ve grown
To the pain, the hobbled step,
The duality of fatigued breaking,
And advancing ever intrepid
Amidst the chaotic spasms
The fevers, the ringing in my ears,
Gripping any surface for stability,
Aloof to the passing tears
My chest fills with molten lead,
My brain burns with molten thought,
My spine is a shuffled deck
That cannot move as it ought.
My hip cries out, as I imagine
Jacob’s birthright pangs
Have I spent my life half-crippled
By all these physical pains?
Yet all the same, I’ve run the race
At times, I’ve taken flight;
And it is underneath these grindings
I have gained my sight.
And I am even grateful for all these.