Were the days but an inch longer,
I could have said all I wanted
& reached the sun by now. Instead,
I grope for the light switch – clamping
my eyes when it comes on. Blinded!
Always blinded – like frogs in the
hot desert, crashing through coarse sand
half-way rustic and rightly stunned.
Checkmarks pierce my paper soul and
yet not fast enough for cruel pen. 
Boxes futile, ever growing
outweigh my sense of peace. I seek

the sun but breathe no air; filling
lungs with vacuumous everything. 

Rozell, 2022.

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