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.