The Secret Underground Race

Walls, motion, pages, sounds,
Stuff that tell you stories of,
Those distant wars, those arms within,
That heart and all those broken lives,
That wretched house, those wrecked limbs,
And the ideas, those affairs clandestine,
They speak to my macabre split personality,
In a language that’s discreet, pristine.


Maybe the links are novel, or maybe merely special,
But the voices of that pain, of those muffled cries,
Ring in my ears, pure and true and clear.
It’s a relationship that will last a life,
It had no end, will have no beginning,
And may even not a plot to tell.


So all this while, and all your life,
My walls, my motion, pages, voice,
Have told me some different tales,
Of battles that were never sought,
And of the minds that had never thought,
Of the life, the flowers that will never be,
And the lies, the desires that were never free,
The affairs always clandestine.


The whistle blew, the visits made,
The secret underground race,
That everybody ran, and which all of you fake,
Was never, ever run by me.
I was too busy watching you run.
I was too busy breaking your rules.


And even though I have finished last,
And there are regrets for not running fast,
I am happy that I was left behind,
In front of me the starting line.
Now I can run my marathon.


And while the wind would whoosh past by,
My walls, my pages, and this rhyme,
Would talk to me above the cries,
Above your claps, above your crude,
And as the secrets tumble out,
I would run my stories before you.


And as I cross the finish line,
I’d shout the truth of all my lies,
I am different, and yet one of you,
I’ll be freer and yet be one of you,
My affairs ever clandestine.