Running. Circles over and over and over running circles. Running.
A track star with deep scars, engrained in DNA and so he runs.
Running circles under the stars and the suns,
Looping puns and ideas and shuns of his fears.
Wasting stamina, jamming the gears with regrets.
Running. That’s all to do. Since he can’t stop the marathon now.
There is nothing but the loop of the track, round and round,
Over and over, vaguely leaving footsteps in ground.
A thorough stride that will not cease, fuel for the beast.
So he keeps running. The loop never tires but he does.
The loop is his own yet is filled with lies,
Deceits, mockeries. Late night burgers and fries.
Running. Running is all he can do,
Holes in his shoes, mind, His soul.
It does not matter. There is nothing to see,
Just keep on looping and going and pushing.
Until the cogs dislodge and the wheels grease,
And everything all of a sudden is simultaneously lighter but tighter.
Except from all the running the burden feels lighter.
Because he has trained unconsciously by running,
He has become a fighter, and though the running may never end
The time between is shorter and a bit brighter.
– E.s.K –