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)