She who runs.
There are those who run.
The murderers, the politicians, the Omelas.
There are many who run.
The lost, the purpose driven, the gifted.
They are never as condemned as a She.
She who runs, indiscernible in her desolation.
Confused as much by her own identity and the terrifying reality of it
As she is by the realities of those around Her.
Those who will claim to understand her purpose know nothing of it.
Some exist with their sole purpose to run beside her.
She leaves no room for such things.
She is a wall, She who runs.
She is pain.
She is difference.
Everything in this world that means anything was the art of the She.
The presidents molded.
The countries forged.
The trust broken.
She is stronger for ones who do not believe in her grace.
She is weaker for those who overestimate her dexterity.
Some embrace She,
These ones are typically gifted with the curve of her breast, with the smile of her lips.
These ones understand.
They live, they breathe,
She whom runs,
Those who deny the gifts of She.
Those who pray for the understanding.
The blood of She assails them
And they stay far away from her touch
They struggle to understand,
Those who are not.
They want to know.
But She who runs is not to be caught by those who want her
They, Those, Ones and We will find her eventually,
She who runs
Through our veins.