Sometimes I wish I could fly and take myself away, to a distant land far removed from the scorching sun that bakes my earth into a stony hearth and burns it into a barren wasteland.
Sometimes I wish I could run Fast enough to escape this darkness that coaxes me into a frenzied song and to a fevered dance; of mindless tongues that sear my lungs and wear my tired soul.
It is not fear that makes my feet to trudge these forlorn streets, this barren land of long dead dreams and dried up streams too lost to yield to the gentle prods of shoots of change from just beneath.
It is not hope that beguiles me into This wait; a desire for a lost reprieve. There is no promise of a better day No inkling of a future salvation that can free me from the pull of this wasted land.
It is the lure of nostalgia, the memories Of once sweet fruits and dainty blooms now dead. Of memories deep within from which I cannot run. Of pulls and tugs, enchantments of a pleasure that the inner darkness craves and wants.
Sometimes I think if I could fly And I took myself away to a land untouched By the ravages of a relentless sun, I might just find that the darkness I was running from has come with me and is within.