scramble sprint run
it’s always a race
to keep ahead of time
I know from the start
I have no chance of winning
yet my hands propel me forward
as if it is a race of hands
mine against the clock’s
it always wins hands down
yet tomorrow I know
I shall try again
using the tricks I learnt today
I imagine someday lying cold
and timeless in my grave
I would have won the race
but no, I only pass the baton
to another pair of hands
running a futile race
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