The Chase

It is strange
How we lament the swift passing of time
When it is the ephemeral
That we fall in love with
We are never truly content
Always needing something to chase
The proverbial bone, so to say
It is the chase that is our happiness
And our sorrow
And it’s over only when the tides of time
Come crashing on our shore
And we realize we left the bones buried behind us
Not particularly well-hidden
Just enough to leave a trail
But for whom?

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