Runaway

Runaway

Is there any god you still pray to—
or do you think your tears are silent?

That there is no one
to hear the dolorous bells
ringing on your cheeks
as you try to gulp the cider
brewed in the monastery of swords
before it turns to vinegar?

I do not know
who dressed you
in matador's clothing
and set you in this arena
with only a cape to foil
the onrushing bull

but I do know
you are too young to believe
you will never have more than curios
to pass out to the audience
to the story of your life.