Sometimes I wish I could fly
and take myself away, to a distant land
far removed from the scorching sun
that bakes my earth into a stony hearth
and burns it into a barren wasteland.
Sometimes I wish I could run
Fast enough to escape this darkness
that coaxes me into a frenzied song
and to a fevered dance; of mindless tongues
that sear my lungs and wear my tired soul.
It is not fear that makes my feet
to trudge these forlorn streets, this barren land
of long dead dreams and dried up streams
too lost to yield to the gentle prods
of shoots of change from just beneath.
It is not hope that beguiles me into
This wait; a desire for a lost reprieve.
There is no promise of a better day
No inkling of a future salvation that can
free me from the pull of this wasted land.
It is the lure of nostalgia, the memories
Of once sweet fruits and dainty blooms now dead.
Of memories deep within from which I cannot run.
Of pulls and tugs, enchantments of a pleasure that
the inner darkness craves and wants.
Sometimes I think if I could fly
And I took myself away to a land untouched
By the ravages of a relentless sun, I might just find
that the darkness I was running from
has come with me and is within.