Cupped Hand Poem by James Barrs
Cupped Hand
Struggling toward possible rewards,
Knowing failure means my life in vane,
Slowly washing down the drain.
Blood and tears in the same cupped hands,
Loosing what little grip I have left.
Moments before my fingers slip.
Reaching for the end at twenty-four,
Running a four hundred meter dash,
Informed later of the marathon,
Desperate now, to maintain this pace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/26/2024 6:30:56 AM # 1.0.0.1119
