Escape Routes

Sometimes it feels like a Tolstoy novel, 
the pull of fate, as in the desire of each
individual unknowingly stacked upon 
the others and leading toward an unstoppable
today's tomorrow, possessive as a rock
fallen on top of a car: this is mine 
and I shall not move anymore.

Do the birds feel this outer compulsion?
Are songs generated by the fact of other flyers?
I sit here in awe of the water, keeping the 
ships on top and the bottom below.

Each piece is a peace that wove its way
into an unwilling heart, yielding to the
reality's brilliance at the behest of 
a generous sunshine.

Sad stories are meant to get the tears out of
the caverns in which they otherwise dwell,
as tragic life can be too much without a 
narrator, and the facts of fiction.

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