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Thursday, August 16, 2012

A race of hands


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