There’s a moment when, crossing between two streetlamps, a double shadow appears,
arching from your fears, a body projected through years onto cracked concrete.
So, stopping, you watch it split in separate directions, no fixed perfections,
all later corrections point from now dividing as forces pull one into two,
coloured red or blue at different ends of the spectrum, matter is best left some space,
life isn’t a race in the traditional sense, but against the perception of yourself.
Worrying is bad for your health, because as much as television may scream in your ear,
grinding each individual gear, you need not wealth,
but a hand to pick you up and dust you off when you fall,
no problem at all, giving pats on the back, setting the wheels back on the track,
in motion again you walk on from staring at your shadow, standing won’t help you grow.
And I know it says not to walk towards the light, but this time it’s alright,
because looking back won’t help either. As a fighter, neither Rocky nor Rambo,
you face the night ahead, spit to clear your mouth of lead, and strut on son,
because you are only born once, and you only die once,
but it’s what you do between the two that makes you awesome.