I run because I can’t fly.
I’m always finding a poor alternative for this one life, this one heart, this one mind, this one.. dream?
My muses aren’t alabaster breasted Greek goddesses, fickle, and dancing gaily in autumn mist, with flower wreaths around their majestic heads,
But the double headed serpent, always ready to forsake its double.
The cicadas, resurfacing after their seventeen year old sleep, to taste life once more, drowning the wilderness with their tenacious forlorn love song.
The hawk that nests atop the twenty story building where I live, because it’s the tallest tree around.
These geniuses taught me to run when I can’t fly,
to own all my foolish old selves, the dead skins I shed, to carry on.
