In the line where names are called,

A hush falls deep, the brave grow small.

One by one, the lucky go,

And I remain, the final show.

Eyes avert, no hand held out,

Silent echoes of quiet doubt.

Still I stand, not bowed nor broken,

Wearing strength in words unspoken.

You think last means less, maybe wrong,

But I’ve held silence, learned it strong.

Watched the crowd and saw them race,

While I endured the waiting place.

There’s power in the overlooked,

In pages they thought they never booked.

The last may walk the longest mile,

But finds their fire in the trial.

So choose me late, that’s fine, I’ll stay—

The storms I’ve walked won’t wash away.

For when the lights begin to dim,

The last to rise will always win.