Dodging Searchlights and Feathers

The shadows smirk, fiendish

intent on the wind. I'm running from wings, always

glancing back, salty

tears on my tongue when I lick my lips—I'm terrified

(freedom, my existential gripe),

but there's no going back.

Never again.

*

I've been tricked so many times,

surrendered the reins in exchange for lashes,

spent long stretches of existence asleep.

They're all so quick to say that you can trust them.

But salvation is a sugar-coated cyanide pill,

and despite what they say, it's never free.

Out here, on the left hand,

we'll see your scars, and raise you ours.

*

I'm on the run again, dogged, dodging

searchlights and feathers, hugging the dark;

every step down the stairs in the night is a risk, but I take them running, three at a time;

I hear omens in the rushing of wings.

There are briars here, noxious

weeds, snakes, barbs, devils,

but it's better here than in the light.

Sure, you'll be blamed for everything that happens—

the buck stops here with you—

but out here (they call it "hell"), we are free.