Runaways

the wood is barely empty

it sings with a certain
crescendo; one that highs
and lows
and all the goes that
go in between, around
and about
with trickling drops
of tainted stops
and dissolved tears
and shallow sweat
sauntering through
the grooves and
heels that beat to
a lopsided rhythm,
shots at the night
in a parallel hysteria
to be and to ignite;
in tracks and
paths under a notion;

that we’re more than just runaways

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