you've turned the inside of your
arms
towards the sun
exposing them
finally burning them
like an old folk song
left on the highway
five hundred miles
is a long walk
never liked the idea
of leaving a place
and never returning to it
it's like leaving a piece
of yourself
there's a migraine
that's taken the lead
in a footrace
there will be no winners or losers
& no one's looking forward
to the finish line
could just fade away
a vanishing point
where excuses come easy
or not at all
after all
the song
is the journey
--- e b bortz
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