Date: 2025-12-17
AO: ao-nevermore
Q: Wax On
PAX: Wax On
FNGs: None
COUNT: 1

When the Shovel Flag Stood Alone

Before the sun could find its nerve,
the Q arrived—
cold wind worrying the dark,
flags snapping like truth told plainly.

He drove the shovel flag into frozen ground,
steel biting earth,
a standard raised for men who did not come.

No headlights.
No chatter.
Only breath and wind
and the hollow sound of “maybe next time.”

So he ran the lap—
feet slapping asphalt,
loneliness pacing beside him,
a faithful but unwanted partner.

Back to the flag.
One hundred crunches—
counting not numbers,
but reasons to stay.

Then twenty-five mace bell swings,
iron arcing through the gray air,
each rep a quiet vow:
I am still here.

Again the lap.
Again the ground work.
Again the wind.

The sad clowns slept in warmth,
motivation curled beside them,
soft and unreliable.

But discipline stood upright in the cold,
hands chalked, breath steady,
doing the work without applause.

And when the sun finally showed its face,
it found a man alone—
not defeated,
but forged.

Because motivation is a feeling,
and feelings come and go.
But discipline?

Discipline shows up
when no one else does.

Tags: ao-nevermore, Wax On