Circles

How selfish it seems,
To be brought into this world with
No choice.
To wake up every morning and drink coffee and die
All over again,
As you sit in traffic and
Slowly re-realize your own
Mortality.

How selfish it is,
When a 12-point stag is
Struck in the translucent fog of dawn
By a man in a Kia.
Never to take another silent step in the
Stillness of the woods,
Far away from this
Lucid dream.

How selfish I feel,
To see my reality as different from
Anyone else’s.
To presume my existential plight is uncommon and unique
From the thousands of men who
Lived and breathed and
Sped through the unknown
Before me.

How selfish I am,
For thinking life should treat me any differently,
As I shift and sway through
Borrowed time.
Driving in circles until I become dizzy and nauseated;
Screeching to a halt when the
Tank runs dry.