Times …

There are times,

Fleeting times,

When he can catch his breath,

When his heart isn’t batter-hammering

Inside his chest,

Inside his brain,

That he can believe the lies:

That he is gaining on the familiar figure

Disappearing through the doors,

Ahead, frustratingly just beyond recognition;

That he can decide whenever he wants

To stop running;

That, after all, this is just

Another bad, bad dream.

In which he seems to be running, through an endless chain of doors,

Between dizzinesses

And the darkness,

Among shadows,

Among long-dead dust.

He is slightly stooping

As he stumbles between indistinct walls,

Claustrophobic spaces.

But he just can’t remember

Why he is chasing the individual –

That every now and then he

Seems to recognise; either

The body language or the gait.

And he cannot think why

The figure is running away.

He needs to ask him …

But to do that, well …

He has, first, to catch up with him.

Every now and then

He has an urge to look behind him:

Just to check:

How far he has come,

How far it will be to get back.

Strangely, when he does turn

He is aware that, just maybe,

The distant figure he is after

Also looks back, but he is never sure.

Then comes a shocking moment of uneasiness;

Because, from the corner of his back-turned eye,

He sees another figure

That seems to be pursuing him.

But that figure is also looking over his shoulder.

He feels the need to get away,

Looks forward and tries, desperately to accelerate.

The character ahead, he notices

Is doing exactly the same!