Monday, 5 March 2018

running from the where i did not want to be

the settling down comfortable days,
the safe within the picket fence days,
far away from the scenes of a life 
that he has run from all his days.
               the trapdoor bog days of
the forced march against the tides
flowing along the cold winds of his insecurity.
bending backward in his rationalisation
his justification of the suffocation,
of the wire-wool stuffed eye jobs.
beaten down by those 
             who are also beaten down
                            by those in the relay race to 
end all relay races;
        to the end of time 
               in times unending.
safe now along the slow cemetery path
he can laugh at the absurdity of
his question - why did I not ....

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