He Runs
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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.
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
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