Picking Up Roots

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the white light
of the full moon
burns through the veil
of a passing cloud
erasing the shadows
of the night,
showing us the way

I don't hate this place
I just wanna
get away;

there's no Southwest
flight to that patch
of freedom 
where I want to be

I struggle to see
past the exhaustion
blanketing me;

I've made my bed

I can choose
to lie elsewhere