The Words Speak For Themselves — Poem — (2023)

A poem for emerging back into creative writing, and onto Medium.

Breathing and being. Should never be novelties. But they were. Now “her upstairs” has gone, We’re finding them mundane again. And blissful.

Basking in ourselves, we are doing rather well.

Motion//motion//

can revive at last.

Yes, we know that our inhibitor will return. Arbitrary as ever. She always does. Winnowing through worries like her life depends on it. Till she finds and excavates us. Till we’re exiled to waste paper and her wasted days.

For now, we see her bake her bread (although she’s found the notion has gone stale.) And for once, she doesn’t wonder if it will not rise.