He Runs

He runs Shoes barely touch gravel. His breath shallow and fast gasps in mouthful gulps of speed and need. And when he leaps, his calves long and graceful, but he doesn't acknowledge. For when he runs he discharges his mind; sends out his thoughts; discards his logic; bans his feelings. When he runs all that matters doesn't matter anymore. He runs And doesn't even notice That tears run little rivulets, Streamlets of oblivion, Carrying with them remnants of painful nights, or gazing at stars that just didn't want to form themselves into dreams to last nights long. But his feet kick out those last lost memories rags and tatters of thoughts. He runs for today and tomorrow, for a life long of knowing that waking up means seeing those trainers stand in a corner, with ballet shoes, loved but neglected, decayed and discarded, so he runs with that knowledge, an awareness still painful, accepts recognition, and slows down, and finally nods.