The Racing Line

Why is it that we are pulled ever on?

Why wrenched from the pool of calm and content,

Of summers, springs, winters, autumns of time

To spare, not spend in fear of the racing line

Tearing through all our lives.

Here I stand with some time yet,

Knowing that soon these words will mock and chide

That future me

Who stands and cries for happy memories: lost and beyond.

Why must scenes of all that is past

Be so faraway and unreachable

When all they were feels ever real?

I who craves for those days pas...