How it could have been.

He's running through the city,

And the pavement eggs him on.

"Run, bad boy,

Flee from this night."

The wind chokes his lungs,

Sordid and smoke filled little things,

And he doesn't know how,

To breathe anymore,

Or how to stop his feet from running.

There's a car,

And there's a house,

And there's this horrible feeling that there will never be redemption.

Not in the night,

Never in the light;

His labored breath stains the air.

"What have you done?"