Beads of perspiration descend.
I am in a forsaken race,
desperate to meet the finish line.
The earsplitting gunshot
echoed throughout the hollow caverns
and the people are off
with energy they bought.
The ground is harsh and hard,
those that fall sustain bruises and grazes,
upon the skin, upon the heart.
We all wear similar roadrunner garments
tromp upon the earth
to glorify or vilify forefathers and fathers.
The race is governed by fools.
Infuse your bloodstream with chemicals.
There are no rules.
What we all cling onto
is the childish hope
that the riches are reward enough,
a golden trophy doused with age.
But there is no first place.
And we are all running,
running to run, running to survive.
Because being abandoned
to camouflage in dust is unthinkable.
We all have to play
with our innocence dying slowly
day by day.
In the end,
with madness we all contend.