Man on the Run

There’s nothing quite the same as a man on the run,
A man with no name nor a life nor a gun,

A man with nothing left but the clothes that he wears,
A man on the run whose going nowhere.

Though the sunbeams reach down sizzling hot
And the ground and the rain have got their lot,

There’s water around in a most hidden place,
Not on the earth but on the runaway’s face.

The car’s out of fuel so he’s left to walk,
No energy to run or voice to talk.

He’s alone in the wild, just keeps moving on,
Leaving invisible footsteps of a man long gone.

Cry out a name if you must, if you can,
He won’t ever answer, this vanished man.

He’s part of the earth now, to never return,
The sky and the sea are waiting to mourn.

He’s a never dead man if you must be sure,
He lives on forever in the tales and folklore,

On a wandering journey that has no end,
My silent, reproachful and nameless friend.

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About Paul Carroll

Paul Carroll is a writer, born, raised and still living in Dublin. By day he's a student and bookseller, by night he writes fiction and uses social media.
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