Friday, June 13, 2008 attempt at prose poetry.

Disconnected. Helpless. Each choice blocked by barriers. Creations and situations over which I have no control. I am sick, voiceless, and lonely. Patience is a fruit whose plant has shallow roots in the soil of liminality. I am alone. I have no voice. Just a scratchy whisper escaping the swollen lining of the cavernous, gaping hole in my face. I have no place. Here. I have no home. Here. I am a stranger. Welcomed but lonely. My voice is tired. My mind and nerves are scarred. I have been thrust into this space between boundaries that I cannot see; it is dark, yet I am afraid to open my eyes lest I find that the place I am found in has no room for deal makers. Here, I am tired; here, I need a pillow to pull under my head; here, I want to find the place to curl up and find myself sleeping with grace. In peace. Enraptured. Alive. Again. 

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