Pulling A Runner

There should be a name
for this impulse to bolt,
to just tear the hell away, as if
every barbed and sour thing
(and all the wounds, and all the weapons)
can be so easily
left behind.

Once upon, I would lope
out the back
tearing down
the prairie hill
across into
the woods,
any direction,     just
my paces
the miles           burning
my eyes           searing;
my lungs            combusting
the tumbled          rushing
in my  hot ears
out the call
       of my      name,
      drowning      out all
       the caustic,      cutting       words,
even my own.

Older now, and earthbound,
I still ache sometimes
to take flight, to just go –
to burn my demons away
with the pounding
of my feet.

It never really
worked, never lasted,
even back then.
But just for
a little while,
it tasted like it.

(C) 2014 by Rosetti C.
Translunary Things
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