Running

In every pocket now weapons lie,
And weary faces of fear and doubt
Come and go
Come and go ... Always the same
... Ere a nervous rut

Why not let Chronos
Be who he must be,
Do what he must do;
Let the seeds of Spring rest,
Let the dawns of Summer breath,
Let the nights of Winter last.
... The leaves of Automne die?

Host of our feiste though you would not apprize?
Greed will not douse Aaron's rod,
Though scurry you may so far and wide,
Till blindly you wrox in your deserving tomb.

Where will you run now?