Surface stimuli spreads a serotonin smile across her face,
but the Half-Life's less than half the life she wades in space.
Knows she should quicken pace through times of disgrace,
Though often feels displaced, rewound to start of race.
How's one to continue when all progress is erased?
So many demons faced, and more still to take their place.
She just trecks on through space
Pulls tight shoes' lace,
A race to erase disgrace,
Makes haste to displace
Any demons she'll face,
And on her own, a smile place.