|
Blue Smurf After this far, one would think that he couldn�t barely run. The challenge too much to bear, except for the elite few. But you�re wrong, for him pain is glory�dying is fun. A repose is not the broth he drinks from the brew. He�s fallen with each stride, soared with each step. The coming of the dark storm is the return of the blue sky. He crawls with power, sprints at a creep. He�s jumped so low and fallen so high. But he�s wrong, glory is forever and pain is temporary. A paradox, perhaps, or so it seems. Soaring as a trapped eagle, plummeting as a free canary. Or so it all is in our own dreams. His marathon is the existence of life among all human kin. His glory through pain is the life we seek. We deserve. His joy when finishing the race within, is the object a singular mortal wishes to serve. The race is to know the truth and then to find it, it is to discern The race is to rise each time you�re fallen, it is to return. And when I find him, the finisher of a marathon, I�ll look into his face. Mirrored in him I�ll see that it�s me who runs the race. The potential currently resides in my pace. If I finish, there is no ultimate disgrace. || At the finish line, I know at least one question will remain to be answered, being too great of an enigma to reason out and not acquire a brain-burn: If a Smurf were choking, what color would he turn? |