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Fugitive

Two young fugitives on the run, a babe on the back.

It's like a game but wicked to the core, they're searching.

Hot on our trail, we wait till sunset to stop and rest in the dark side of town.

Passing termagents with angry glances, cursing tirades.

Kindness roosts in another time, this but cold blasts from damnation.

Time for a doe. Keep calm, I just need to slay you.

Small fire, simmering fat to keep warm.

Walk at early sun. Shade the tot in terry.

The younger carries now, slightly ahead, scouting on thin legs, tired.

Out a makeshift tent, comes one who demands help

and concern for the babe, skirting steps but faltering.

The older says: leave him, he's my brother.

And who's the baby? It's mine.

That's a laugh. 

That's no sooner your baby than mine, they will take him.

The older one shudders. Sound of hooves, all scatter!

But in different directions. Running, running.

The younger one has taken the woody side of the road, the older

hides on the other side, in sparse brush.

The moody one retreats to his tent, sullen eyes.

Worry settles. Hooves pass, they reunite but not before

hearing a parting shot: that's solders where you're going.

Better to hide, there's a dry well beyond the clearing.

Go down in there and wait.

They chance it on their own. Better than some gauntlet.

By nightfall, total collapse.

How could we not know.

Green door

Time to either walk through the green door or smash it 

black being asleep on my chest, breathing soft 

clever to distract with debates of borders and flake exits while Mother burns.

What difference does it make when eyes fall short in the long run?

A burning building is a building burning. 

Cat in the wings

I'm waiting to be a cat.

The moment ripens and my green eyes jump out and screech me to a halt.

One filling is coming loose and everyone can hear a mad woman.

Someone locked her in an attic and she can't come free.

Mercy's on a break and ...

Flowered by sadness, the cold rains come.

The law extrapolating how energy is always replaced

is rather

impersonal.

All specification debunked, the day death sped

a trip your way.

Nasty surprise.

Smart how happiness soars the soul

only to prepare

for plummets.

Ironic play for seers who watch from 

the eyes of trees.

Sleet and wind, newspaper rolled round feet.

Keep it quiet, gotta force down sadness.