The deafening patter of minuscule feet,
Reminds me this isn’t an armature game
The blood sweat dribbling down my brow, slows me down.
I wish I had seen the illusion,
The delusional safe haven.
The avatar in the horizon eludes my cataract vision
That illusive epiphaneous high,
Slowly slipping away,
There’s no winners in this game of toiling,
For a wage that’s never enough…
Was I not made for more than a rodent’s game?
I don’t want to play anymore…
So I stop.
I’m changing lanes…
Running my own solo race
This time there’s a glorious crown for a price.
You will also be a crown of beauty in the hand of the LORD, and a royal diadem in the hand of your God. Isaiah 62:3