Eric Eaglesham // WHERE’S THE FIRE?

I smell the fresh air

Feel the cool breeze on my face

See the gentle sway of the grass

Hear birds softly chirping

And I feel my legs

Itching to run.

To don wings

And fly faster than any jet.

I pick up speed

Dashing between trees

And over fields of grass.

I run and run,

no cares in the world,

and I am free.

Until

I bump into an adult.

“Whoa buddy,

where’s the fire?”

I look around,

And all I can see are adults moving to and fro

Working on this report or grabbing a cup of “Joe”

(I am not sure who Joe is, but I think they should stop taking cups of him)

“I don’t know,”

I say.

“Where is the fire?”

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