By Monica Mills
Where there is desperation, a keen urgency to flee,
A listless hum of purpose that doesn’t apply
Escape is an immutable mobile, it perishes
As ash in the mouth, as reason once again
Rears its head.
Where there is dissolution of hope, an anchor drowning,
A fetid swamp of emotions bubbling, broiling, expecting
Freedom becomes tangible, no longer an abstraction,
As clocks chime erratically, nostrils filled with
Stagnant breath.
Where there is devastation, a forest littered with stumps,
An empty graveyard of lost opportunities, of alternatives,
Liberation comes with consequences, billowing hurricanes
As wings flap lazily, creating a turmoil better left
Dust covered.
Where there is distraction, however mild, from hyenas,
A simple yearning for another embrace, that outshines resolute
Release, so keenly felt, focused, procured, now disintegrates
As vapour condenses on a Coup é De Ville, and curiosity
Ignites life.
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