Turn

Click, click, click. The car wants me to turn. But I can’t I’m on a dusty road to somewhere…or nowhere. I’m not sure which. Behind me is a smoky city where the people wear masks. I don’t want to go back to the suffocating fumes where nothing is quite real. When I get to where ever I’m going, I will have a pair of angel wings tattooed on my back, right between my shoulder blades. They will be small, my secret. They will remind me that I can fly where ever I choose.

Click, click, click. The car wants me to turn.


High

Things that are high often seem to have wings. And things that have wings often seem to fly. If I had wings would I fly? Would I fly past the fairies, the dragons, the hopes and the dreams? If I could fly, I bet they couldn’t make me grow up. I’d flap my wings and glide out of the reach of their clawing hands. They’d never be able to see me if I was that high.


Wall

It ends here. A dead end, a closed door. No further. No more. The tunnel ends with a dull splat. Like an egg hitting a wall, but less satisfying. This is the last. This is the end. A wall stands between here and there. It’s too high to jump, too smooth to climb and there’s nowhere to turn. a boxed in dead end that smells of panic. Stopping is not an option, but there’s nowhere to go.