The horizon runs away from you.
I know poets say it recedes.
I know science says it’s relative.
But I think the horizon runs away;
And I think that nothing else is true.
Breathing is a lie.
Dreaming is a lie.
Hope is a lie built by a mother with a babe unborn.
Hope is the unheard cry
Of horizons to come.
Nothing else is true because
My horizon will never be the same as yours.
Mine will be more east or west or north or south.
Yours will lay differently:
Yours will run differently.
And we will chase separate horizons hand in hand.
Our fingers will slip in their grip.
Our knees will lock and rot with age.
I will chase my horizon.
You will chase yours.
And we’ll chase it ‘cross the Styx
Through the labyrinth of the underworld
(To weigh our hearts against a feather).
We’ll chase it past the gates of Pearl
Or through those of Iron.
We’ll chase and chase and chase.
The horizon never tires.
The horizon never sleeps.
It only runs away
From our failing reach.