In the essence of my being lies a truth, fundamental and clear,
I’m a procrastinator, wired to sprint; they say it’s born out of fear.
Be it a hundred meters or two hundred feet,
Last night fights before exams, chasing deadlines on repeat.
Then how did I end up in this marathon, now running the eleventh lap,
Five years and four cities, I was following a map.
Convinced I was running toward something – a goal,
But it’s been a long time now; uncertain, I question my soul.
An unseen tether, a spectral noose, tightens around my nape,
I wash the glaze off my eyes; the earth beneath I scrape.
The track marks have long faded; I realize a spiral course I’ve tread,
Thundering encore from the last homestretch bleeds through; the finish line turns red.
Lunging for the fleeting goal, ethereal and sly,
The rope tightens relentlessly, and I run, there’s no time to comply.
Centrifugal force takes over and my legs give away,
My eyes are cloudy, unblinking, lost in an abyss of disarray.
Today, still running, haunted by memories, on the verge of decay,
The elusive question still echoes, what made me run away?
