Futile? Vanity.

Futile? Vanity.

Quadriceps burn,
like chilli oil injected,
and veins pulse.

Grey muscles,
ache like legs
ever pounding
psycho marathons
but no finish.
Just dotted lines,
re-written targets,
over shoulder,
then empty.

Only forward makes sense,
at least to us,
senseless runners.

By David Bugg (2012)

This entry was posted in 2012, by David Bugg, Life & Obervations, People, Poem, Spirituality. Bookmark the permalink.

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