The Race

Everything,

That brings the end,

Begins, someday, with death in mind.

It sprouts from nothing,

And blooms into everything,

Primal,

Carnal,

Helpless, and blind…

…falling fast through time.

Grabbing only what it can reach.

Longing for those special things,

Which lie beyond its downward path…

Falling faster now,

The routine whirl ensues again…

Spinning helpless, crying, 

Time ticking, 

dying.