Waning Moon, Fleeing Soul

The moon is waning, 
slipping away into the night, 

much like my mind. 

As I run over boulders and logs and grass and hills and trees and rivers and — 

snap back into reality, crashing from the forests of my imagination, 
back into my human body, 
into my boring, human life. 

Oh, how I wish to be free like the creatures of the wood, 
to soar like a hawk, 
to run like a wolf, 
to hide like a fox, 
to creep silently like a bobcat. 

How I wish I was not entrapped by this mundane world, 
oh, I wish for adventure 
hunting dragons in the mountains 
tearing down monarchies — 

but alas, 
this I can only escape in my own mind.