I was born running away.
Running from expectations tyrannies.
Running from playground wounds,
where the language of the young
stabbed like word spikes.
“There’s a home for little children
above the bright blue sky,”
we sang in that infant’s class of yesteryear.
Those words were sung with a devilish fear,
incarcerated in a 1950’s shadow land,
no one survived.
Running, running from those
who had the power to make us run,
no hound of heaven there,
only the thunder of approaching wolves.
hammered in us by Beasts,
who served conformities army.
And in damnation’s wonderland
we danced to the rod,
totally, utterly alone.
And what of those aging children now?
I see them running from themselves,
running from workplace miseries,
running from the rod of ‘what has to be!’
Let us look for the child inside ourselves,
comfort him/her and tell that child
to stop running.