paper binds my chest, my mind entangled
beneath the weight of my futures.
my left hand, a slave to the pen,
my soul, a slave to the land.
my desk, buckling beneath possibility
splitting in two, throwing itself in opposite directions,
quantum entangled with itself, time, time
time again. we need more,
than what we have. acquisition,
ruining this land.
throw me under the roots of the trees,
my soul is planted deep.
fence posts and metal gates, these are
the company I keep. swimming among the stones,
through babbling brook and Valley steep.
weighed down by all my past homes,
floated up by the future,
where I may yet leap.
Spring 2019
YOU ARE READING
Unbroken • Poetry
Poetryeven the leaves will not break beneath her touch "All art is quite useless." - Oscar Wilde
