Mr Brightside

LittleTalks

Otherside

He rose where the cold breath waited,
Grey dawn biting bone and will.
The world leaned hard against his chest,
Yet still his feet were set to go.

The path was thin as a blade’s edge,
The sky a weight upon his brow.
No oath was spoken, none required—
The moving was the vow.

Run into the wind,
Still moving, still moving.
Push through the gale,
Push through.
He does not break,
He holds the line.
Forward—
Always.

The air struck back like living stone,
A foe with neither face nor name.
Each breath was taken, not bestowed,
Each step a theft from pain.

Fire woke beneath his ribs,
Ash and iron in his lungs.
He bore it as the old ones did—
In silence, on his tongue.

Run into the wind,
Still moving, still moving.
Push through the night,
Push through.
He does not break,
He holds the line.
Forward—
Always.

Against the air he gave his weight,
And in its grip was carried on.
Let it burn, the weak and small,
Let only motion remain.

Run…
Against the air…
Carry him…
Let it burn…

Run into the wind,
Still moving, still moving.
Push through the end,
Push through.
He does not break,
He holds the line.
Forward—
Always.

Run.
Run.
Again.

Riptide

Matthew McDowell