Thud thud; goes his feet, thud thud goes his heart.
The eyes of kneeling men seem to question him,
what are you running from? where are you running to?
Some look at him as if to say I wish I could run; some look as if to say I ran once...what a fool.  
But yet he runs regardless; he runs from their questions and from his own.

Thud thud; goes his feet, thud thud goes his heart.
For this short run he gives into his insanity in a world full of madness; he is free.  
He can hardly breathe and he can hardly see, but he longs for this short taste of freedom.  
He can no longer feel the warmth of the sun when it breaks through onto his back
he can no longer hear the sweet call of the birds or the cool and gentle embrace of the rain in his face and on his tongue

Thud thud; goes his feet, thud thud goes his heart.
Many a time before a fellow runner he sought; but never had one been able to keep to his pace.
Some fell behind, some ran on and some would not run at all.  
The path bends and weaves yet he does not stray; it stretches further than the eye can see and yet he does not surrender.
He knows that this is the path he must run like so many others; yet he knows he cannot run much longer.

Thud thud thud go his feet; thud thud...thud goes his heart.
Dazed he hears no more, tired he sees no more, he wonders from the path falling upon a new path in the undergrowth untreaded by him before.
Here he finds a great silence, a wonderful nothingness, a true freedom.  Is this the path he longed to run?