Running till our breaths run out,
Chasing on, with skin ripping off
Our bare soles over
The burnt hard ground.
Sweat drops diluting salt on
Our grubby faces,
The once white shirts stained,
Soiled and scarlet,
Scratches and scars beneath
All those layers of flesh and skin,
From overgrown nails,
Painted black and blue
On still warm cheeks and
Over the cold gravestone,
The requiem playing for herself
In a loop.
And the horizon looms on the edge,
Every wretched step,
Pulls us closer within reach
While every fibre writhes for it.
When at last a whisper away,
We clutch tight in our fists,
A breath that air holds
Only a wink before it flees.
Is it worth it ?
It must, for we never turn,
But travel for eternities for
Sun to set again.
And here we go again,
Pumping that ever hollow pit,
Of a depth that only time can reach,
With those ephemeral jiffs.
YOU ARE READING
Handwritten
Poetry"Sometimes I wonder If this is how it's supposed to be Can I make a choice ? Or is it all meant to be?"...
