THE BORROWED PURSUIT

By Daniel Sowa

I ran, of course—

laced my shoes with someone else’s hands,

chased horizons stitched from their thread.

How gallantly I stumbled

over roots they never warned me about.

The dream was always a tenant, never an heir:

it wore another’s face in the mirror,

left its fingerprints on my coffee cups,

whispered 'almost' in a voice not mine.

At night, I rehearsed their victories

with tongues heavy as unopened letters.

Even my shadow grew tired,

bent like question mark

over a map I couldn’t read.

And when the dawn came—

pale as a doctor’s glove—

I peeled off the borrowed skin,

stood naked in the light,

and finally recognized

the shape of my own hunger.

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