How much of our lives do we spend running? Away from love, dreams and the extremes. Wishing to live safely under cover. How many lies do we keep to a heart that is lost. A wing has broken forth. Perhaps it is not the fight, but in a soft acceptance that it will hurt. Buried a conspiring fire that holds our desires. Could we not breathe space into death weights? Standing wishing without wanting to work. Still regrettably wondering why nothing is happening? What is this foolish