We drag around what should have long decayed:
the habits of a body once called young,
the appetites that time has not allayed,
the words we swallowed, bitter on the tongue.
Our fathers hauled their hunger to the end —
it hadn't served them well in twenty years.
Our mothers kept the minds they couldn't spend,
locked rooms still furnished, no one there to hear.
And now the chip, the joint, the cloud, the code —
we upgrade just to stay where we began.
The self and system share the same long road:
too slow to run, too frail to keep the plan.
But who declared the final whistle blown?
We saw the score and thought we knew the cost —
then caught ourselves: this game is not our own
to call. We play. We haven't won or lost.
The verdict isn't ours to give or get.
Build. Train. Live. The match isn't over yet.