What are you running towards?
What are you running from?
With your breath rushing at the speed of death,
And your eyes blurred by the fog of the falling sand.
The glass is tinted.
The ground is tilted.
This is a dead men's game.
There is no victory.
The fear and illusion of defeat,
Lures you into playing it.
But your passion is wasted.
For the only winning move is not to play.
08-29-24