Losing It

A number of decades held to a hand

pass in time as clocks are rushed in circles

without much haste. It's a minor notion.

Thoughts, on the other hand, weigh more for less.


"I" may cease before I can conceive death.

What am I then? What am I to be now?

One day, I'll pass roadkill without much care

for its prior life, and it won't either.


So, today, I shall scorn my slothful self

to savor the silhouette of success.

With a character defined by madness,

one can find that I will never be lost.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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