Misplaced.

The love that lost itself.

That fell for the glitter in his swimming pool eyes,

And pounded breathless down the path of no returns.

That getting none, despised itself.

The love that ran that route as if all terrors trailed,

So fast it ran.

Small wonder that it stumbled,

Running blind.

On and on, till the very running ached.

Or that it didn’t last,

The glorious sprint which started such a pace.

And all would say, who saw the off,

“They’ll run forever”

And never know that borrowed power ebbs.

That all who run to win and keep the prize,

To keep the glory, not the empty husk,

Would sooner run legless, or tethered,

Than burn out in their prime.

A foolish fever, that made it start so fast.

The love that lost itself.

That crossed a road and killed its shadow,

And died.



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