Wednesday, April 27, 2011

The Little Boy is dead

The Little Boy is dead
He died a slow and horrible death
Choked on his own tears
Gasping for freedom
Drowned in his fears
Craving for fun
He was forced to run
He ran, but got astray
Where to go? Which way?
The path he chose was his own
But it wouldn't get him there, they said

Grow up, they said, and run that way
Look at his shiny car, bright and red
And she bought a bungalow with 17 beds
Measure your worth, compared to theirs
Run, run faster, run harder
And find a good stead
Keep running, till there is no one in sight
Keep running, because there is no end
Keep running, till there is no one behind or ahead

But he couldn't live that way
So the Little Boy killed himself
He strangled himself with a noose
Made of dead and dried up dreams
But he wasn't buried or cremated
Now, his corpse runs the race instead