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.
