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
are 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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