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Poetic License: The runner

1 min read

How many runs left to find my way home?

Returning keeps turning me further away,

Dead ends and detours to endlessly roam.

Past houses full of remembering alone

With old rooms shutting and closing each day,

How many runs left to find my way home?

No harbor or resting place ever my own,

No rest stops on roads taken yesterday,

Just dead ends and detours to breathlessly roam.

How many nights lost to lovers unknown

And waking to strangers along the way,

Who will be left when I find my way home?

Breakaway flights I should never have flown –

Quests for Ithacas leading me astray,

Dead ends and detours to hopelessly roam.

All who once loved me dropped out into stone.

Gasping with past, I wait for them to say,

“You have no runs left to find your way home,

Death ends the detours you endlessly roam.”