French Fry

Life is short, life is spry like a crisp, little french fry that gets stolen if you fail to watch over it. It's written in the name of two moments that hold hands and pass by. On edges of death, it startles those who stay drunk on love and those who dare to fly. The brave have so much to do with life while the meek simply wait to die; the meek ones, that like clockwork tick their way to an eternal stillness. Life, that we spend fretting over death hoping, we can accept with open arms when faced with the end of it; life, that we spend dying everyday, while trying not to get killed. We hope, with love, someday our tumblers will fill and overflow; while we quite often forget to give. Like wild pigeons fluttering with the morning light, we try to run and rise. Leaving poetries, songs and stories behind; damaging souls like ours on rewind, we crawl and scratch our way through life. When validations cease to matter and you shut the loud distinct chaotic chatter, when you love with all that passion and with that roaring obsession which burns within you without the fear of losing or dying in the static run; you know you've learnt to waltz with life, with life that is spry like a crisp, little french fry.