Why he runs
The boy ran fast like all of hell chased him,
He ran for safety, from those who’d remand,
“To be so different? A scandal most grim!”
Or he’d run from fathers, drunk, whip in hand.
These troubles caused the boy to boil and rage,
To think of evils most chilling and bold
And toil on violent thoughts hard to assuage.
This funk leaving cracked shells vicious and cold,
Where hope is gone; dashed out like smoking coals.
The silence spurs desires of egress,
Far from the world’s these forsaken lost souls,
Yearn for contentment, despite how friendless
Even in lives content and fully grown,
Lest there’s change, they stay ruthless and alone.












