run

the forest, spidery with dew,
is glad the winter left at last;
he sets out for a morning run,
as music from an angry time
he thinks he left behind is pulsed
into a set of aging ears
still open to experience
but closed to any thought
that he might be
part of the cause of why
he still might feel
so angry.

he’s sweating in the morning mist
upon a pathway soft and wet;
he thinks about his morning work
that yet awaits him on a desk
inside an office cold and bright,
with signs he used to have a life,
and still, the singer in his head
says he’s just runnin’ with the devil,
locked in adolescence when
there was nobody
left behind
to blame.

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