The slap of trainers on tarmac
Echoes down the still-dark street
Youths are happily a-bed,
Snugly dreaming - it's the
Middle-aged who feel the need
To run, their faces red,
Mouth open, gasping, as they try
To beat their personal best,
To improve, transcend
They never can outpace
The thing from which they run:
It's perched on their shoulder
A shade, whispering doom.
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