Running
Running.
Always running.
She's always running.
What is she running from?
Her feet hit the cold, dank forest floor.
The twigs scrape against her bare skin.
Leaves tangle in with her flying hair.
What is she running from?
The sky rumbles and shakes the earth beneath her unstable legs.
Water begins to soak the remains of her pale blue dress.
Each drop mingles with her salty, warm tears.
What can she possibly be running from?
Fear swims in the pit of her stomach as if the world were to end tomorrow.
She lets out a shriek with stress, anger, and fatigue combined into one.
Everything seems to mesh altogether, but
She's still focused.
What is she running from?
Or,
What is she running to?
YOU ARE READING
The Fifth Dimension
PoetryTraveling to a dimension beyond visible to the human eye where misfits reside, where your imagination comes to life, and a whole new perspective takes place.
