After we ran away:
mold in our motel room,
zits and a zirconium overture.
Two hoodies on one journey;
our families searching
for us like bedbugs.
You talked of train rides,
a hitchhiker bride in a
dueling guitar romance.
I tumbled after you,
my rough ravine,
where foreign vines gained.
My first time in cuffs:
ego a mildewed log
crumbling under weight.
Our kudzu attraction
meeting the fiercest flame;
I destroyed a forest in your name.
K.Hartless is a persistent poet and eclectic fiction writer. She’s been recently published in Luna Station Quarterly, The Last Girls Club, Edge of Humanity Magazine, Pure Haiku, and Spillwords. Her blog, Yardsale of Thoughts, blends fiction, poetry, music, and art to create new experiences for readers.
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2 Comments
some startling images but I have to admit I read the poem a few times and still don’t know what’s going on — unless it’s a variation on the Boss’s ‘Born to Run’: ‘tramps like us, we were born to run’ ;
Yes, it is very much memory, lots of elements rolled together. That may be why it feels so ignored, as it was a glimpse into something that perhaps requires many more words to be expressed. Thank you, John, for stopping by.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
some startling images but I have to admit I read the poem a few times and still don’t know what’s going on — unless it’s a variation on the Boss’s ‘Born to Run’: ‘tramps like us, we were born to run’ ;
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes, it is very much memory, lots of elements rolled together. That may be why it feels so ignored, as it was a glimpse into something that perhaps requires many more words to be expressed. Thank you, John, for stopping by.
LikeLiked by 1 person