The Velocity of Standing

We rose from the mud on unsteady limbs,
Crawling, then standing, as the world grew dim.
The stars above whispered secrets untold,
But we were too young, too hungry, too bold.

We ran from the caves with fire in our hands,
Chasing the horizon across barren lands.
The air was thick with the dust of ages,
The road unyielding, its script unwritten on pages.

Our breath grew quick, our pulse a drum,
But the world around us stayed stubbornly numb.
We pushed, we strained, we clawed at the air,
Yet the horizon retreated with a mocking glare.

They call it a race, but we call it a lie—
A chase where the rules are designed to defy.
The faster we move, the more we stay still,
Prisoners of effort, slaves to the will.

The clock ticks on, indifferent, cold,
Its hands like shackles, its face like gold.
We count the millennia, the epochs, the years,
But time only laughs at our sweat and our tears.

What is the prize for this endless fight?
A ribbon of shadow, a medal of night.
The crowd cheers loud, but their voices are hollow,
Their applause like wind through a barren willow.

And yet, we run, though we know it’s in vain,
For the act itself is a kind of gain.
Not progress, not glory, not even a name,
But the quiet defiance of playing the game.

So here we stand, though our legs are in flight,
A paradox wrapped in the cloak of night.
The velocity of standing, the stillness of speed—
A race without winners, a life without heed.

We built our towers, we carved our names,
Yet the earth remembers not our claims.
And still we run, though the road is the same—
A shadow of progress, a flicker of flame.