The Judge-Penitent

Pressed

I’m writing because I have nowhere else to go,

My chest moves but the air won’t get out of me

And I’m heavy, getting heavier, steadily sinking into feeling,

Sinking like a stone,

The presence of the present is pressing, overwhelming,

There’s no place like home,

No place to go.

I had a dream I was a child again, school was closing,

All the parents trickled by, smiling, little hands clasped tightly,

One by one they go, until –

 

I wake up and I’m alone

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