Maybe it was the impossible chase,

That when done seemed silly to haste,

Not that it was a marathon or hunt,

More that it left whole worlds burnt,

There is no going back to yesteryears,

There’s no undoing the webs,

Nor back tracking the trails,

There are only the memories,

Thoughts that rally around to show truth,

From a perception blinded by youth,

Of times where suffering was just cute,

A newborn to a piper’s flute,

A runner and a snail have much in common,

If the keep going, many eyes they summon,

Both knowing the only joy is to go on,

What triggered the last flood?