The Runner

In my dreams, a man falls asleep, tired and beat up. His wounds masked by a grin and a red smile. There is a thirst for oxygen in his lungs, and enough resolve to conquer the world.

A man is running in my dreams, waiting for something to happen, waiting for life to begin. The pace quickens. His feet are sore but his eyes burn with wild fire. There is no warning, no time. Death lies before him dressed as an ancient battlefield. There is no thinking, only burning eyes, a thirst for oxygen, and the will to live, then, nothing.

A man is running in my dreams, the fire is one with him, oxygen fuels him. The pace quickens. Death smiles, wearing a cloak of shadow and moonlight. The task at hand begs for a chance, but luck lies elsewhere. The urge to run emerges, the scent of blood thickens.

A man is running in my dreams, facing a reality best ignored. The pace quickens. The fire has consumed his mind, his heart pushes forward. Death awaits with arms wide open, sitting in a throne of broken bones and shattered dreams. His fate brought him here, his fate doomed him here. Heavy steps, hard breathing, blood flows without a hindrance, yet, he is alive, more so than ever, he smiles.

In my dreams, a man falls asleep, tired and beat up. His wounds masked by a grin and a red smile. There is a thirst for oxygen in his lungs, and enough resolve to conquer the world.