That carrot is just five inches away,
dangling by twine.
The love of the chase is fine,
if the fire is still there,
that can be devine,
to crave that shine.
What’s not is the loss of time,
what’s given up in the mean,
the things that could have been,
can be all that’s ever had,
that and the sad,
sad, slog through joyless jobs.
All in pursuit of that malevolent non-fruit,
dangling just out of reach.
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