Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Nothing to say

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
…        …        …        …        …
That which I have to pick up, lest I get caught littering

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