Tonight's Poet Corner: Runaway

Runaway
by Belinda Roddie

The hills are stained red
at sunset, and I am blissfully
alone, counting the loose change
in my pockets while awaiting
the endless confetti of stars.

There's a tickle in the grass
beneath me, like the itch of
frayed sheets on an old bed -
comforting, inviting, and familiar,
stretching dreams like taffy, thinner
and more vulnerable, but longer,
with more space to grow, and more
time to run from the monsters.

I have collected loose eyelashes
that have fallen from me, blowing
each one into the overhead zephyr.
My wishes are cheap and unwilling
to transmit into reality. But wishes

are wishes, and dreams are dreams,
and when colors turn from crimson
to indigo, I find truth in the pictures
that fade fast from me when I dare
to rise off the dirt that's fed me.