Tara

What keeps you from the gun, a crescent moon this Easter, a life that makes you run , an arc of scurried waves, billowed by a search to flee, little one’s you’ve saved, what do they know of fun, on their flight to the sea, you survive many tongues, by map or bottle being brave, when you fix a constant need, in a search for freedom, do you consider it done, this love of creed, it’s certainly not forbidden, except blank looks for trade, your insides scream, everything’s waylaid, in this age of apathy.