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
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.

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