and he runs


whoosh, the sound of leaves
combined with cool scent of the breeze
its therapeutic
like placebos for the stupid

we've all got shitloads of problems
so many, some can, most can't be resolved
endless attacks on the brain
and in the end they morph

into multiheaded monsters
your swords dented and blunt, rusty and old
couldn't slash nothin', so empty and cold

in times like this, my solace is
the peace left behind when you start running and
pain in the legs takes the pain of reality
overwhelms and degrades you into molecues with irrelevancy

so you're left a speck, in this giant ball of water
where fishes swim blissfully,
just empty the bottle..

and its gone - just like the wind
when he's running, away from his sinss