As I watch them run,
Towards a burnt out sun,
Heads bent, weighing a ton,
I can't help but wonder,
How could this be done?

Nothing matters but dread,
And could this be the end,
To a life filled with pain?
Who helps the down trodden,
Running towards the end?

Could it be true,
That even perfect you,
Who would never be crude,
Could fall into this group
With such a melancholy mood.

As I watch them run,
Towards a burnt out sun,
Heads bent, weighing a ton,
I can't help but wonder,
How could this be done?

They think that running
Is how they avoid the cunning,
They, who must be chasing, gunning
Towards them, with one goal,
Which is the goal of shunning.

Now they know a truth so cold,
It will haunt them forever, tenfold.
The mercy of death, they will never behold,
Because their wickedness was all but unknown.
They must be eternally cold.