inveterate longings

The race of inveterate longings for habitual behavior,
Leaves questions along the sidewalk like dead leaves,
Ready, poised for the next foot step to slip and fall
To the ground, the filthy mud of the Earth; and when
All is said and done, the answers are high in the trees,
Unreachable by human hands, but the birds, singing
Freely, land and mingle upon the branches of lucidity,
A cloudless night, a vision of clarity, but now,
We feel nothing at all but the speeding to the finish line,
To cross, to fall down again, for the last time.