It Is On The Run Poem by James McLain

It just cannot eat that,
the other,
not that, it just is not you,
no matter what.
It is not buff, it isn't a rose.
It is not dreamy, or heavenly's,
cream of soft wavy shores,
the rim of fire.
She knows by now it swells.
She will come looking for it,
the real deal,
not a three dollar bill.
Does not every John on the streets,
flow against that?
Misguided as what?
You may know the part,
yet when you look down,
it is only just a rose on it's tree.
Wood is for roses
to cling to
as they grow to heaven
weeping the sky
seeking fun in the sun.
Always blushed, always full,
as one with he,
was a band on the run..
from the law.
It did not do the deputy though..
The rose did..