Three quarters of a cup.
Hardly enough to jump start the day.
Barely enough to put you to bed.
More than half, less than full.
A confusing stake in the ground
Half way between half way and all the way.
We half and quarter our way through life
In a pointless perpetual measurement.

I will forego fractions and increments.
I forsake my place along the measuring stick.
I’ve not begun or I’m done.
My cup is empty or it is full.
I walk the infinite line.
My progress cannot be measured.