Too fast

streaming through those silky chrome tunnels
undulating air waves
surrounded by the antithesis
we are enemies in our own states
we are exiles in our own places
I am a matter of seconds
I am a matter of moments
here at last
gone the next
I am the biting wind
the stalactites hanging from your limbs
vibrating through all fibers and muscles
dissipating into the twilight
everything changes so fast
until we all become relics of a past
and we are lagging, dragging behind
and finding that being a gardener or farmer
was a life that should never be forsaken

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