A grey blanket hoovers high above wet land,
as delicate as your wisely concealed lunacy;
soundless, restless, visionary.
Their steps are slow,
like those of miniature soldier figures,
unmoved through centuries, static.
And then you run,
like a maniac, embracing calm,
making a million wasted hours drown into nothingness.
grasping for air, effortless;
creating an alien feeling of achievement.
like chased by beasts, like chasing destiny,
and the voice inside your head dies in a whisper;
crushed, unconsciously ambushed.