Poetry Is My Protest: Poem 17

We skipped across these years
Like puddles after rain
And saw the reflections of our sneakers
Tangled in upside down branches and clouds.

The truest essence of our lives is not measured in lengths or acquisitions, 

but in moments, letter pressed into memories and hard bound conversation.

Life, like hope, is stubborn and grows between the cracks of what must be done;
Hitchhiking along the side of winding mountain highways with no guard rails.

If life is fugitive, I'm an outlaw on the run.