again

The starting gun was fired in the womb, A silent signal only I could hear. I fled the quiet safety of the room To hunt a ghost that beckoned from the rear. It’s not a destination, but a pace, A frantic rhythm pulsing in the vein; I am the runner and the empty space, I am the lightning and the thirsty plain, I see it shimmer on the edge of sight— A golden promise, or a silver lie. It promises to make the morning bright And give a reason to the hollow sky. But every time I think I’ve reached the mark, The finish line dissolves into the mist; The sun is swallowed by a deeper dark, And I am reaching for a hand un-kissed. The math of this pursuit is cold and strange: The more I gain, the less I seem to hold. The scenery begins to shift and change, But the fatigue is ancient, grey, and old. I’ve traded everything to keep the speed, I’ve burned the maps and thrown away the key, Replacing every basic human need With this—the pursuit of what I’ll never be. "Just one more mile," the phantom whisper cries, "Just one more taste to settle down the soul." But satisfaction is a mask for lies, A temporary patch upon the hole. For if I caught the thing I’m running for, The silen