|
| |
Marathon of Memories
The morning fog low over the empty streets,
soft as a whispered promise.
My shoes slapped the pavement in steady rhythm--
each step a heartbeat counting the miles.
I had yet to run—and those I’d left behind.
Streetlamps stretched shadows across brick walls.
Long, crooked shapes that seemed to shiver.
A dog barked somewhere—
sharp, sudden—
and I remembered even echoes can run far.
I passed the river, silver in the first light,
leaves drifting like tiny paper boats
carrying laughter from summers I can’t hold anymore.
Each puddle mirrored my worn determination,
the uneven steps of a life I’m still figuring out.
At Mile Seven, my legs shake like a leaf
but my brain knocked around a long way—
to faces I love, faces I’ve lost,
half-light I trailed too heavily,
mornings I never perceived.
My hair was windblown.
Mixed with the scent of rain and earth
and the faint hope that keeps moving me further.
I ran—not for medals, not for applause,
but because every stride stitched the fragments
of life into something that felt whole.
When the horizon caught the light--
it wasn’t a line at all.
It was the journey itself—
miles abaft me, ingrained memories,
and the quiet truth.
I ran just find myself
and somehow--I did!
Copyright ©
Rowena Velasco
|
|