You think you’re headed for the finish line now,
at ninety percent and you’re drawing your breath for a sprint;
you’re just before midnight when the panic stirs
and you’ve lost it.
The race is over now, you’re disqualified,
and you grieve ’cause you can’t face the moon alone;
you were just before midnight at ninety percent
when it crumbled.
You were hoping to overlook that last ten percent,
you hoped it would supply itself
but now you wonder if time could’ve filled it in
or were you satisfied with a little bit of loss?
You’re paused here now in an eternal dead race,
taught enough to reject any less than you had before;
just before midnight you’ll linger until
it has found you.