What is life
but an impossible race against time,
with our hopes as pacesetters,
and our dreams to cling on to
when our souls become weary,
burdened by the ever-increasing despair
of a seemingly non-existent finish line?
What is life
but a question
with many answers and no answer;
a question that digs deep into our souls,
creating a void so salient
that many try filling with:
family and friends,
careers and vocations,
religion?
What is life
but a poem with no rhyme,
formless but sincere,
questioning its existence,
moving beyond black and white,
finding comfort in the grey?
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