The Race

The Race

You see a leaking pipe, and know—
Though slow, each drop begins the flow
Of gallons lost to time and rust,
A wound disguised beneath the crust.
Each bead a gem, with breath inside,
As if the water, too, has pride.
Not just a leak, but something more—
An ocean waiting at the door.

You watch the cars in silence pass,

A humming stream of steel and glass—

That sterile hum, so clean, precise,

Conceals the cost beneath the ice.

You hear the glaciers crack and slide,

And smell the gas the engines hide,

You taste the burn, you feel the cost—

And know how much the world has lost.

You are attune to the song of the world,

But the notes arrive twisted, tangled, and swirled.

The air you breathe smells sharp with fear,

You see beneath the gilded veneer.

You walk the world and feel the spin,

Each breath you take—a step, a sin.

You search the sky for what to bring,

To make a place where spring birds sing.

You see it then, with eyes grown wide—

The grass is greener on the other side.

You tear the veil with shaking hand.
You cry. You make your stand.
But no one runs. So you begin,
And sprint ahead, through thorn and din.

The bramble tears, the roots entwine—
You stumble through, but cross the finish line.
You stand alone, with lungs on fire—
And nothing closer to what you desire.

But wait—
Can you see the ocean, if a drop be the race?
Another veil, another face.

Did you see the hands that turned the wrench?
That pipe installed with care, to quench.
She rests a hand upon the line— the small delight
Of ending one long job just right.

Did you see the oil drawn up from land
By hands with dirt and dreams and plans?
The jokes at lunch, the kids at home,
The weariness they bear alone.

The system’s flawed, the harm is real—
But even in the gears, we feel.
The people here are not machines—

They laugh and cry and chase their dreams.

They shape the world with what they give,

And all they want is space to live.

And so, the race was never won
By sprinting fast to reach the sun.
If you must run, then run to stay
Beside the ones who’ve lost their way.
If you must shout, then shout to guide,
Not leave them trembling far outside.

For love must be the final prize—
Let's try again, a resonant reprise.

Come to walk cheerfully through our home,

Seeing warm hands beneath the shiny chrome.

And maybe—without grand acclaim—

You’ll be the pattern, not live a game.

--

This poem was created in collaboration with AI. While the themes, structure, and voice were created by the human author, some phrasing, rhyme, and stylistic suggestions were supported through AI brainstorming. The final poem reflects a partnership between human intention and digital ideation.