A race of hands

scramble sprint run

it’s always a race

to keep ahead of time

I know from the start

I have no chance of winning

yet my hands propel me forward

as if it is a race of hands

mine against the clock’s

it always wins hands down

yet tomorrow I know

I shall try again

using the tricks I learnt today

I imagine someday lying cold

and timeless in my grave

I would have won the race

but no, I only pass the baton

to another pair of hands

running a futile race