By Scott Ott

Pity the poor soul
who lives in ordinary times,
when all lies serene, and
greatness idles for want of challenge.

Pity the poor soul
whose mettle untested,
whose courage sits on casual haunches,
whose genius abides a-bed
as no one cries for rescue,
nor smites the cheek of honor with disdain,
nor yearns for unseen vistas,
soils untrodden,
to go in vessels uncrafted,
to sweep through time
in manuscripts undrafted.
When dreams sleep and
men recline at the base
of mountains with
no desire to climb.

Pity the poor soul, yes,
even when evil retracts her talons
and slinks into the hedges
When holding the field requires
little more than arriving on time,
and the challenge of the age
is but to maintain, maintain.

That sad citizen, dying, leaves no legacy;
absent, leaves no vacancy,
no shadow, no path, no wake, no testimony.
A hyphenated epitaph,
he spanned the years
barely marking the time…gone with no trace.

But never waste a drop of pity
on these my friends
to whom daily challenge arises,
who face the fear and
know the aspect of the year
when threats abound at every turn and
liberty’s flesh chafes at
the manacles of ambition.

For these bold few break out,
drive on, extend, expand,
never turn back.
They find reward in daring
and do what they must
Paying the price with painful toil,
yet they would multiply that cost
and pay it again,
for THIS time has found them,
THIS purpose embraces them,
destiny kisses the brow.
No need for pity now.

Save your pity for the poor soul
who lives in ordinary times.