Whose Life Is It Anyway?

There are no guarantees,
No perfection.
Life is just a series of moments.
Moments.
One leads to another,
The past to the future.
The present lives and dies
All the time,
Like rhyme.
We only have each other,
But we only have ourselves.
We have nothing to cling to
But cling to it all,
Like a person trying to reach the top
Of a greasy pole.
We have no grip,
And that’s the only reason why
We shoot from the hip.