The Race

Hands are chapped and rosy red

as fingers slide across the keys

But there is no break, no respite, no rest

Rather a race through lettered-streets.

Time slows down and speeds back up,

Until there's no time at all.

Only the click click click of typing keys

When fingers start to fall.

But this monotonous, monstrous turmoil

Is only bad in thought;

Sitting at the filling screen

Is never done for naught.

It's done for the last few seconds

As the words THE END appear,

And nothing ever can overcome the joy

That comes when the finish line is cleared.