A twisted mess of
a ball
Made from paper
pulled out of a notebook
Ripped from a
ream and cut from sheets upon sheets upon sheets spanning for miles across the
plane of earth where forests house the trees that were lopped into stumps,
shredded, flattened, pressed into the very paper that lies still upon the table
cut from the same spruce which crinkles as I flick it onto the cold floor
… … … … …
The floor holds
the paper ball, never disturbing it
It will only move
when I pick it up again
It contains all
that for which I try to say and have no need
… … … … …
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