Fugitive

woods

I’m a fugitive
accustomed to the dying dust of the open road

Where there is darkness, there is me
The urge to discover in my eye
Frenetic and frantic in the wild winds
of the night

This fugitive’s mind is disturbed
‘Tendriled’ like black gothic twigs
Crackled against the cold and remote welkin
An upside-down abyss

A pariah knows no bounds
Except the looming presence of the realisation of death
Lingering, like smoke
Behind a dark curtain

A penny-less thug of a dark holt
Quick and cunning
As a whip of the night

This fugitive is hungry
Hoping to absorb any form of compelling mystery
Any form of anything
To nourish an intangible and dangerously forgotten mind

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