The Runner
The runner, lonely in his stead, does go
both feet a cumbered patter, sure and long
with weight his countenance will not bestow
against the heavy breaker's undertow.
As rival sinews, breath and bone hold strong
the runner, lonely in his stead, does go.
His pendulum-like legs reap as they sew -
a grand chorale of agony in song.
With weight his countenance will not bestow,
instinctive machination sets to flow
like streams from mountaintops to seas belong,
the runner, lonely in his stead, does go.
His streamlined members pronate to and fro,
drumming loose the shouts of inner wrong
with weight his countanence will not bestow,
so sees the beckoned light of finish grow.
Though pain and pumping blood it will prolong,
the runner, lonely in his stead, does go
with weight his countenance will not bestow.
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