He’s running the race
And though the pace
has begun to tire him out,
he runs still
Saddled, bridled and directed
All fingers pointing North,
he runs South
Labyrinths ahead
Monster under the bed
Groans and crawls out.
He runs amok.
The fires burn
The waters churn
Rhythm engulfs him
He cries out loud
The soul screams for more
Amidst the furor,
Ecstasy throttles him
He hits the ground
No labyrinth ahead,
Exultant, he treads
Whittling a path of his own
He no longer runs.
Nietzsche! NICE.
ReplyDeleteDoes it look like I'm reiterating his philosophy? That's fancy :D
ReplyDeleteSadly enough, these poems never win competitions in Delhi University. :P
Yeah, the title and the poem both.
ReplyDeleteAh, I gave up on winning competitions long back, especially after I won it for the trashiest poem I have ever written. Faith in judgement - gone.