Pedro Nilsson-Fernàndez

Dec
28

RUN

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.

Run,

grasping for air, effortless;

creating an alien feeling of achievement.

Run,

like chased by beasts, like chasing destiny,

and the voice inside your head dies in a whisper;

crushed, unconsciously ambushed.

 

 

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