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Friday, February 01, 2013

We Are Admired

Fly Me To The Moon
"On the battlefield, on
the playing field, the
dead have more to give.

Pick that man up,
dust him off, and
send him out again."

Your pain sensitizes me
for the day, already
a failure before breakfast.

We are admired for
pain we deny existence. 
Believing it does not
hurt, earns us medals.

Push past the wall;
play through the pain. 
Give voice to the
primal; scream it away.

On the battlefield, on
the playing field, the
dead have more to give.

Pick that man up,
dust him off, and
send him out again.

We do this every
day; it is an
old, old idea that
every step should ache.

And it gets older
every day.  Push past
the wall; play through
your pain.  Give voice
to the devil; yell
the pain away.  When 

your brain expires, the
flesh will decay, but
embedded in stone will
be gold-plate medals.

Push past the death;
play through the pain.
Give hurt your voice;
cry the pain away.
------

The Collected Chaff, v. 1.0    
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