In the palm of my hand that’s damp with tears of fear and frustration
In something deep dark and empty- a tiny ember of logic and reason
ready to grow into a steady flame.
The iris of my eye-wide with with doubt and disbelief at the course
of a life taken-reins grabbed without permission by an insipid yet
temporal force of madness.
In the weak bones of my knees that creak after long sleepless nights
The stiff popping of joints and protests of tightrope tight hamstrings
A tightness that extends down the back of my shin to rest at the base
of my ankle, pulling ever so insistently with each step I take
Does it live in those quick first steps that turn to the heavy
footfalls of running feet?
No, not running- fleeing feet that fly only in my dreams
Fly in escape from an island of lost hope once called home
© Chloe Miller-Bess 2016