• Angelina Blankson

Creed

Whole.

Whole and perfectly uniform.

Void of any jagged edges,

any sharpened corners.

The fallacy of

order.

Never becoming more than


the neverending spin

the cycle

the somber of routine

so whole

yet so

empty

rigid outlines birth unsettling complacency

a momentum that cannot be stopped

a decay that cannot be controlled.


The motionless motion of

blank pages,

the howls of a messy room,

the fatigue of relearning the same movement,

same lessons,

same diction,

over

and over

again.

Again,

the cycle continues;

again,

I succumb to the Void.

***


No.

There are no hills.

The plain is flat,

and the breeze is

suffocatingly absent.


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