The squares
a round
the edge of the room
They are boxes
They are squares
They shine.
The room is dark
the darkness of a bright light
smell the air
where it cuts you
in the back of your head.
Smell it.
It hurts.
It is a living hurt.
The squares
a round
have grown
since I’ve seen them last
I’ve seen them last
and last.
Invincible.
Like a bird.
And inside the box
get inside the box
too big for the box
with a bird
on your head
a bird without wings
on your head.
Trying to fly.
Frozen movement
but the box is still there
and you are still there
with a bird without wings
trying to fly
clawing into your head
through the fog
ripping it back
tearing it apart
the ultimate frustration
refreshing
rip it off
rip it off
it’s over
and we’ve gotten no further
today.
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