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
Through The Cracked Window (Revisited) 