Vagabond
Feet run cold on crackling leaves
In between birches standing erect.
The sun stands still as it watches her dart
Past sentries guarding centuries.
Clad in winter worries and silver spoons
She runs from snakes and wolves
Snakes and wolves with their payments of compliments,
for what?
What do they want?
To stop her in a tangle
In a mad subjection to the very thing she fears.
A naivete that threatens to quell
Her thinking heart.
So she keeps running, at least
Until coils drag her blindly backward
Justifying childish forgetfulness.
Left in limbo
A vagabond.
~Lauren~
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