two fires on a hilltop:
a demand
and a hope;
one requiring only my sanity;
the other devours my soul.
Between them,
lowing, I
follow this string of crumpled words
lodged somewhere
between my stomach
and my reason for being,
take a step,
(faltered like its heartbeat)
trip and sprawl
but advance,
a druid wringing spells
out of sodden dreams
and tired of being myself,
longing just to be;
breathless, blonde and singed;
a smooth swallow; an unfurled brow.
Trapped of my own weaving,
I can do nothing
but make my way.