The Chase

The Poorly Painted Picture of the Light

There, in the distance, we see a glimmer of home,

And we, run, scurry, stumble over our own dreams

To reach out for a poorly painted picture of the light at the end of the corridor which vaguely and strangely gives a comfort of memory.

We run, skip, jump over valleys, and reach

For the flickering lights in the cabin, surrounded by trees, in the middle of central park,

Just beside the public toilets and a cart which sells lemonade, sarcasm, and hope.


And we walk proudly, parading our Wednesday dress

To the everybody (Nobody) who cares to look

And we promise that we will shout our joy and our dreams from the rooftops,

But truly, probably we will never even be brave enough

To whisper them to ourselves in the screaming silence of night.

Even when the darkness swears that she will hold our secrets in both hands

And never let them go

Never let us go


We never let them go

Because instead, we run towards the painted light that holds us to a strange comfort that we feel existed in our past and can never exist in the unknown. 

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The Chase
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