The Flutter of Dead Leaves

It begins at conception as an afterthought,
something unthinkable in the wake of glory
Watching over all things,
waiting for its time.

It is the shadow, the shuffle in the corner of your eye,
forever reaching but never grasping.
It whispers to them in the beginning, 'here I am,'
and the race begins.

For years we run, not daring to stumble
while it chases us at every turn.
Should we stumble and lose our footing,
or make a mistake without purpose,
then we lose all before we ever envisioned.

We wonder if there is dignity or triumph
in losing so early, in never reaching the end,
but we must accept the loss, and continue on.

Some will give up, and say the race is
too difficult, too tiring, too exasperating on the mind and soul,
and they choose to lose because they know it is inevitable
and they can run no further.

A chosen few will run the race, run far
until their muscles are naught but sinews and
their bones are paper, and they will carry the wisdom
that those who quit long before possessed,
but this is only one end for them.

For they know the race was fruitless,
that there was no victory to be had,
that all they knew would be whispers in the wind
on the fluttering of dead leaves,
but they ran it regardless, and every step,
every last breath,
was made to matter.