“…His run was long in quest for breadth…”
My soles lead where my soul wills
On glassy roses. On thorny glasses,
Hauling a sore that mutes its feels
And chokes it on fears so ceaseless.
I lurch on hints of its shrills
“No. Not that. Not him. Not there”,
Sure of where not to be
Plodding lines so unclear.
I run as do all fellow men.
Am blemished and scarred,
A heart that hurts, a hurting heart. Grazed fists.
But am a good makeup artist
Faking up in filters for an apt façade.
A faceless man runs fast,
A man with many faces runs farthest….
“Not what is. No. Not the past”
My path lays on my marred soul’s behest.
An exertive run these scars will tell
But soon I’ll run out of space – no breath
And my last will bare the ending to the tale-
His run was long in quest for breadth.
I see you running as gritty
With shrouded scars and filtered faces
In pursuit for likes, acting all witty.
Maybe life is one major run of many races,
A run from something, somewhere, someone,
Running from the whispers in our heads
Of haunting pasts or what we learn,
From the daemons beneath or angels in our beds,
From the past away from the future,
From who we are away from what we have to be.
Perhaps running is our default design,
A silent command too still to hear,
Yet daunting and loud for a deafened ear.
Perhaps in the stead of living we run out of air…