Home Free Poem by Sarah Elizabeth Clark
Home Free
The nights I roll home,
windows down,
blasting metal.
The smell of dead things
and moldy creek beds
wafting through the forest.
Wild.
Impulses collecting
under the skin
in my cold veins.
Screaming.
Beating one thousand times
faster in the panic
of being free.
That's where the hills
can still take me.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: home
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4/19/2024 1:41:02 PM # 1.0.0.1119
