We are the last of our kind;
the slow flutter, stream trickle
that winds through the veins
of an earth that must gain speed,
lest it totter and fall
like a top, spun by a child
whirling in all its madness
until the pull of momentum is gone.
We are the fingers at the edges
wanting a page to turn
when all the rest of the world would sit still
and wallow in the juice of now
and ignore all of tomorrow
which shall soon pour inward
at the edges
to create something new
until the pull of the momentous is done.
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