flee my all

It’s hard to believe but I used to be something. Not just one of your run of the mill stooges you’d step over in the street but a real somebody. I had it all; although not everything I had belonged rightfully to me. I took what I wanted with both hands, covering all I saw with gold but lacking in a substantial way any of the glory normally associated with these excesses. Living like a king means nothing if the peasants are still flinging shit at you. You would never see it, it was just a sense. That feeling of loyalty that is chained to absolute fear seemed to be veiled to thinly just for the sake of mocking, the underground resistance to prevalent in the streets to afford the title. A chain reaction that was not a forceful wave but more a conscious progression through the people as if it were a simultaneous realisation of a notion to the understanding of fact. At the daybreak they would have me by the neck from a tree, a slow jangling dance of the damned for them all to witness. I had hatched a plan of escape but it didn’t extend past the notion of running away. Details of how or where weren’t to play a part as options were limited to the airport or a shabbily constructed boat of unknown condition and the outlook grimly pointed towards short-lived freedom before an embarrassing capture. I figured “why not?” if you’ve got no chance may as well aim high. A spirited chase until daybreak got me clear of the town limits but dense bushland was my savoir. Just past the tree line I fell down a small ditch onto the invading militia.