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.