The same walls have called my name,
in a roundabout way,
millions of times
But I’ve tried to stifle it, pursue silence
from where I stand
in the middle of the room

I’ve lived in the same town’s only intersection
for millions of years, in a matter of speaking
keeping my broken left foot steady on one side
waving my sprained wing on the other
closing shut my battered eyes,
willing away the existence of this prison
and the last million years (or so)

I’ve nested smack dab in the middle of this drabbery
this mundane, this stale storm
while my mind limped to the outskirts
not knowing where to go
or what it was searching for
or that it was searching for anything
At all

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