A Terrible Tension

What if in chasing the sun I cease to see it at all?

What if in watching it set, I miss its’ most glorious rays?

Future dreams and present joy always seem to war,

And when they do the same ones always lose, and they are me and you.

We’re taught to fly by one, then sent back down by the other.

They make us tipsy, topsy, turvy, and trite,

And leave us confused in a terrible spite,

But we can’t leave them be, it’s terrible but true,

For all would be toil, less that troublesome two.