For the sum of our days
how many are spent busily getting nothing done?
Are they days counted against us in the tally of days?
Lazy is a contributor just as mindless work hangs on the hands of a clock
passing the face of a day
we toil managing to keep alive.
Do we strive for authentic excellence
or just accept average?
Regret looms on should'ves, could'ves or would'ves
while we realize finiteness of our time.
Pacifying ourselves to forget all dreams we once held
desperate for legacy
leaving them for another .
Anything noteable for the being of here.
Days of action and adventure
are gone with youth
for towards the end we claim respect for what we fear
bringing us the inevitable equation of realizing
we were just spinnng our wheels going nowhere.