Embers don’t live long, sparks gone before blazing their lights. Rivers go their own way, and the mountains avoid their run. When the sun is high above and the clouds no where in sight, the natural becomes my way.
I’m tallied and priced, spent to the last cent. The last dress on the rack, discounted to the lowest bid. Sheltering moths, the natural becomes my way.
So let me go. Let me leave. I don’t want to be the one that’s fighting the stride. So let me be. Leave me in peace. Because I’m natural, and nothing can save me.

© by Grace Charles

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