The Race

The Race

 

Nihilistic from the moment we are conceived,

hurtling towards certain demise our,

atavism repeating the cycle of,

fate predetermined by fate.

 

Between the starters pistol and the finish line,

we run the race, another,

no relay here, it is only you.

 

Always running, forever feeling chased,

hurdles attempt to slow our progress,

falling we pick ourselves up, scraped knees and all.

 

Run on, run faster, and reach that finish line,

with the shiny prize firmly in hand, die.

 

Alternate Ending:

Optimistic from the moment we are conceived,

life is an endless adventure ahead of us,

destiny determined by free will.

 

Sunday morning basking,

in window lace and leaf filtered sun,

embracing down white gossamer.

 

Dreams drifting, in open timeless places,

we play, no ticking down, only here in this moment,

memories live forever untainted in our hearts.

 

Eternity is ours and always was,

infinity fits nicely into a life not yet finite.

 

(I am a Stoic)

 

 

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