A poem called Returning

Returning

There is something kind and quiet and queer 

On the carpet. 
Something standing up, supporting,
Even the tiniest of bones. 
There is something so sedated 
Between the carpet and a raised voice, 
Something so severe and fractal, 
And wasted. 
A stance so suffocated and substantiated 
It too is whole. 
 There is something so quick and kept and near, 
On the carpet. 
Something forced down, collapsing, 
Even the most unnecessary organs. 
Between the carpet and silence 
Something so pliant and silent, 
And recycled. 
A place so airy and absent, 
It too is whole. 
Here I am on the carpet. 
There is something between where I end and something else begins, 
It too is whole. 

April R.

2 thoughts on “A poem called Returning

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