| There's a little bit of angst|
Little British villians tie knives to their rifles, and run face first into the forest. The trees extend their limbs to whip the skin that dashes by without a second look. Leaves prance from above the anxious heads, that speed straight lines. Feet that barely touch the ground, and the fall is catching up to them. The Oaks breathe in heavy, and all the branches blow back--ruffles of fallen cinders drain onto the floor. The black rubber soles kick and rustle, faster the heart clasps in & out. Your fingers get caught in a shrub, from the behind you dangle and tear. A violent scar rips through your vinyl skin, and like invisible becomes visible, you bleed. Sacred sacrifice from the outside in, you don't stop. Your legs push up and bend, push up and bend. The air strikes, vicious trips from your nose to the bare your clothes leave from resistance. You're not even running anymore, you're grazing the scare, to the other side of the forest--you've been a passerby, and the bark is biting back. You raise your gutted palm, and sheild yourself from the thatch ahead. The vines stitch you all across your bones, but the dull sun dips from above, and the trees aren't around anymore. You slow, sigh & kneel, as the rest catch themselves. They tend to fall from the width, like the leaves from the hind. You breath in, and deeply--there is no winter this year.
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