The silence before the Line.

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8pm and orange setting suns. the soft spring nights resemble what is to come.

The track smells of melted plastic with lines of deep blue, the midwest sun glaring, relentless and with no hue.

My feet burn with every stride, a footbed of cinder and hot coals. A herd on two legs waiting for the charge.

These evening runs do more than prepare me. the silent anxiety slips with every breath. with every heartbeat.

We are not done carrying the fire. no. not yet. 
I can see the straightaway. legs filled with acid they turn. cadence increasing. a tick of impatience. how much do we ask of ourselves. All or nothing.

With all the purpose in the world we find to do something great. This task. this struggle we chose to participate in. it is unreserved.

The World grows quiet around a single line worth crossing. it gives way to a moment of clarity, it strikes quick. Are you watching ?

We are almost there. that place of silence before the line. Once more into the fray. this team, one body, one mind.

Guide that inspired this poem: 

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