Thursday, April 3, 2008

Where Am I

Voices finally reaching me
shouting stop;
bright flashing in my face.

Can't hear my own ragged breath,
standing deaf,
only listening for pursuing feet,
only hearing the wind of flight.

That wind is hot on my skin,
in my hair like a brush fire,
roaring over me like a storm.

My past is burning.

A crazed animal,
too shocked to sense
the damage to my home,
I've run for months
into this space beyond the trees
where out of breath,
out of time,
the burning leaves of autumn
consume the spring.

I'll fall and rise from this spot.
I'll run no more.

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