BATTLE WITH MIGHT

Different battles we spring, sprint, and fight

With hope to hold the top be the moving might.

Some are strong; some are weak a clipping knight:

All shall die but the strong: the smiling morning light.

To reach the top, some jump, fly in fast a flight 

While others creep, craw with a face pale and white.

Rough is the road as flames of pain and pangs ignite 

Which burns to ash the ash of minds with poor a plight. 

The golden top is yours if that is what you sight:

The muddy bottom is yours, too, if that's what you bite 

The fresh fruit flip flipping top the trending tree of height,

To feed from which the giraffe upped its neck as a kite. 

So run you not off the tunnel leading to stars of light 

No matter how hard and deep the thorns grip and bite.

Swim in pools of blood; drink until it is pure and white,

Shout: In a lion's voice, all hopes of success hold, recite.