The Award

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We run and leap and chase the flame,

As seconds sharpen breath and sight;

The crowd stands thrilled and shouts our name,

Their joy erupting in the fight.


On tracks of dust, in rings of light,

In labs where silent hours grow;

On stages dressed in borrowed might,

Where dreams perform what wounds don’t show.


In halls of service, schools, and wards,

Where hands give more than they receive;

True honors rise from broken chords,

From faith the tired still believe.


Yet some awards are built of air,

Bright titles bought, not truly earned;

Applause that masks an empty stare,

With names that history never learned.


They shine, but leave no scar or mark,

No sleepless night, no tested soul;

No walk through doubt, no climb through dark,

No loss that carved a deeper goal.


But real awards are written slow,

On flesh, on time, on silent pain;

They bloom where unseen struggles grow,

And prove that hurt was not in vain.


So understand when crowds depart,

And glitter fades from borrowed fame:

The truest crown you ever start

Is pain transformed to truth and name.


Not every prize deserves a frame-

Some only flatter, then depart;

But those that rise from lived-in pain

Forever live within the heart.

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