The Last Run of November

Pushing against the changing surface,
The earth responds in kind.
My way is forward,
but my mind is making tempting compromises.
The bellows have grown red hot,
yet a rigid icicle forms in my throat.
To stop now would be madness and relief,
yet until victory I move on.
The gates roam closer with each shock,
every ghost of mine cries as I pass through.
Exhaling dignity, I finally pause for a quiet breath,
and then run home.

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