what are we?

what are we?

fighters with no one to fight,

wars that aren’t our own.

working ourselves to the bone

the neverending story,

on repeat.

 

will it ever change?

sometimes i sit

small,

curl myself up,

contemplating the earth

that i won’t witness.

to busy being dead.

 

think about it.

our lives are so finite,

so small.

practically nothing.

we dance with death every day,

with those skeletal fingers

a constant

lingering

caress.

 

so what?

i’m not in a rush

to sign my life sentence.

i refuse to settle.

so i embark

on adventure.

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