Like Arthur of old tales,
The blade is cold in hands raised up aloft,
Success aft’ many fails,
Confidence after evenings of self-doubt,
That linger even now,
Past wins are stories of another’s loss,
Who were wrong and yet defeated somehow,
Like just one foothold on a ragged face,
There is still far to go,
Despite the odds overcome to that point,
Fearing the fall below,
It never ends,
Best you understand this,
Each victory’s another trial’s start,
Passion does not promise another kiss.
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