They made a run With the setting sun, For the things to be achievable And pleasures unimaginable. When in the dark, the rest slumber, He had no sleep, just hunger, Shattered by the burden to thrive, In an order that never willingly took him in stride.
He made the run To have the final straw spun With the sun that set, Over the lives that wept. Achieving in the way what was not his, Feeling what once had been a miss, But the cost that lingered over the shattered soul Bought never a bow, suffering leisurely in an air so foul.
