Sitting, watching as the world goes by,

Life passes in the breath of a sigh.

Casually takes everything in his stride,

Bowled slow, missed stumps, scoring wide.

 

There’s no rush while others steadfastly run,
Content to view what had already begun.

For those who chase their eventual prize,
See only stillness behind his glazed eyes.

 

Others measure worth in what they’ve won,
He measures joy in what he could shun.

While others rise above, to seize the day,
He steps off, choosing a different way.

 

He leans on others like they’re a garden gate.

Yesterday has gone, his tomorrows can wait.

While others chase the rising tide,
He slowly drifts, hands down by his side. 

 

The world spins fast, but he stays still,
Complacently moving when he has the will. 

Not every soul is made for the race,

He finds comfort at a much slower pace.
 

They asked him why he let things slide,
He smiles, allowing this thought to subside.

Someone once said of him, and succinctly put,
He would practically do anything: Anything but.