"That's the right word,"
I say to myself,
Writing the next line.
Before I can finish,
My thoughts are interrupted
By my boss's yelling.
"Come on," he calls.
"You've gotten your fix.
Now back to work."
My head ****** up,
My scribbling hand stilled.
The boss's words smart,
But I must work
If I'm to eat.
Back to routine's kingdom
I voyage, utterly chagrined.
Memories of my escape
Join the mist's evanescence.
Like the treacherous ocean,
I am always running,
But forever fated to
Return to the shore.
The dictates of duty
Govern my restrained passion.
And thus, I yearn
For escaping through words.
To put it succinctly,
Mundane reality is terminal,
It will **** your soul.
Art is the soul's
First and best defense,
Whether words or pictures,
They represent your soul,
Fighting for its survival.
Survival in the escape.
Answer this for me:
Having just once escaped,
Why would you even
Want to come back?