The Race

Yes, I've read this morning's paper,

but no, it doesn't bring me comfort;

the whole world wants me moving

to a beat I can't keep up with.

Now the steps I follow daily,

well they move so very swiftly.

The quickening of paces

leaves me breathless, weak and dumb.

So I channel hop each evening,

and I let my eyes go roaming,

over pages, my fingers run

and my mind paces in circles;

But my body seldom reaches

all the targets that I set it;

The race has long been forfeit,

and and I'm resigned to defeat.

Now the bodies rushing past me

look so stern in their conviction;

they're heading onward, further

better places there await.

So I'll let my vessels thicken,

let the blood trickle in slower,

and languish here, for now, among

the sheets I can't fall out of.

I've not read tomorrow's paper,

though I doubt it'd bring much comfort,

I can hear the bugle calling 

me to step into the streets.

But for now I have my comforts,

my angels and my demons;

My tired eyes are closing 

and  the sunlight is quite warm.