Freedom, for The Sunday Muse Prompt #56.
It hovers in the distance
in the space where the edge
of consciousness meets the taste
of remembering. Where air meets skin,
and the sound of living is squeezed
into a high pitched wail
and then regains length, and afterwards
dies as they recede into the distance.
Each bump on the road,
is like a firm word tossed
into the wind, each jar
as like a current shared
between melded parts.
From the distance joy,
delirious in its appearance calls
but here in the lull before the storm
lies a fleeting pleasure, a moment of peace
before the whirlwinds return