The finish line is a mirage,
A cruel joke played upon my mind.
I don’t know what it looks like,
And it stays always at a distance.

The finish line is a fluid concept,
Changing shape every time I approach.
It is at times a beauty in form,
Though always an abstraction.

The finish line leaves me running,
Escaping what first set me off.
I wonder what it is I run from,
Hoping against hope it is not the finish line.