The Race

Nihilistic from the moment we are conceived
Hurtling towards certain demise 
Atavism repeating the cycle 
Fate determining fate

Between the starters pistol and the finish line
We run someone else’s race
No relay here, only you
Risking it all

Always running, forever feeling chased
Hurdles attempt to slow 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 as we die.

Stoic Poetry


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