Run

And sometimes, the air gets so heavy that walking becomes your enemy. 

You need help yet there is nobody there. 

You cry for hope but the response is only an echo. 

Your echo. 

And just like that, you heave through the air submerged in fulfillment. 

Like the hero of Sparta you carry your legs of torment, 

With weight far greater than the breath of Athenians you make your own hope.