The Rebel and the Coward

As soon as something becomes familiar I slip away, feet gathering speed and then my palms are clutching the grass etching prints in my knees and I am somewhere else.

Am I a rebel or a coward?

Using words when I ought to be using pictures and pictures where there should be words, I speed through the tracks my mind has cut in my head from years of running but end up nowhere.

Looking through high windows, I listen to the sound of passion and do nothing.