She Runs

Throw The Book At Me


She runs
To and from
Islands of composure
Gliding through sun and shadow
Fate pursuing dominance
Against tenacious tides
Where everything swims
Unruly and collected
Polite public masks
Bobbing between cartoonish faces
Distortion holding her close to fear
Where all her dark
Bleeds into light
Each morning
Just another day
Or so she feigns
As time bleats on
Hands in aroused rotation
Striking chords lower than sin
Synths of sand
Throbbing under softened flesh
Falling to her feet
Like offerings
Upending her emotions
Till they scatter
Half in
Half out
Of the shallow calm
Where she has drifted
In banality
For far too long
Reluctant to leave
Reluctant to stay
Though today
She gnaws the bait
In a plunge of faith
To the depths of uncertainty
Where nothing
Makes perfect sense
And life is a beautiful mess
Yet aha moments
Cloud with second guesses
So still

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