On the Run

So flee then, child, with cheetah-haste,
Or faster if you have the legs!
Ten months of sprinting as you streak
Across the incognito plains.
You court a bleak obscurity,
A purblind anonymity,
No touch of heartbreak, nor of love;
Scant sign or imprint left in dust.
What drives you on? A primal fear,
A stalking shape, the lion's shade?
That Cat is docile, sluggish, limp:
He once did dwell in Paradise,
But now he is a gasbag beast,
A saggy, leaky aerostat,
His fur in folds, declawed, defanged,
With porridge for his daily meat.
Or do you quest to find yourself
Among abandoned backstage props,
Americana tagged and shelved
In ghost town shells of empty lives
Decried, denied?
You think you'll fare much better there?
I doubt it, son,
For no one in that barren land
Will understand how you're composed
Of depths and light and giddiness,
For by your fingernails you've hung
From icy, nosebleed windowsills
And contemplated letting go . . .
. . . yet . . .
Never did you lose your grip,
Never did you choose to fall;
Gravity just slows you down.