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.