The Earth Isn’t Flat

She always has a pen in her hand even if it’s just in her heart. It’s there writing flatline flatline bleep across the footsteps she travels. She’s seeking shelter but not in walls. It’s in the dome of the sky at night when you can really tell: the earth is not flat. It’s round, round, and goes around
like the verses in her head that say things like, everything will be clear in the end if it’s not clear it’s not the end. Or that greatness lies around the bend. Dye your hair tattoo your skin there’s nothing you can do to win, over how it is to how it’s been. She knows what fight or flight is but can only kick and punch for so long until she has to flee into those blue clouds of a lonely tomorrow, empty of the people she’s left behind
a tomorrow that beckons from the lies
that sees fear and sees it in her eyes.
A curtain of tries
that she hides behind
she’d count the grains of sand in the ocean
for a chance to rewind.
Forward motion forward motion
falls on empty ears
hope that still
nothing is clear
there’s a chance
behind that motion of mere
teardrops on center stage
of the page
that she writes with the pen in her hand
too lost to sit
too lost to stand.