What are we running from?
Where are we going?
My feet hurt, but I don’t have time to rub them
Or cool them in a stream.
Like a deer,
Leaping old barbed wire, and new
I bound over smoldering fires
Hotspots,
Always cautious, always anxious for the herd.
I’m like an old dog
Showing that I still have it in me
To run and run and run.
Always, always away.
I can barely see the city rushing past.
I have wings on my feet.
My sight skims over the bones of things.
I see too much.
I smell the fear . . .
But I keep running.
I see the future like a slow-motion wave
Before which I am flying,
Before the crash and foam.
What message am I carrying
From god to impotent god?
What silver-winged flight have I achieved
Leaping from mist-draped ledge to fog to cloud...
For the rest of this new poem by GARY LINDORFF, poet in residence at ThisCantBeHappening!, the uncompromised, collectively run, five-time Project Censored Award-winning online alternative news site, please go to: www.thiscantbehappening.net/node/3274 [1]