Under the Rug


Will I leave this place?
End the malaise.
Turn an eye to the sky
Float away, fly.

Like stretching shadows
Clouds before me
Pointing to the road ahead
Go,
Or be dead.

Today marks the time
Marks the spot where
The word is written
Inked for indecision 

Roots spreading
Uprooting the limbs
But branches still fixed
Behind picket fences
And at kitchen tables

This place feels like my grave.
This place feels like my crib.

Home.
Home bound.

Buried six feet below the room I was conceived.
Contrived.

Like a book
Like a song
Like this poem.
All, to dust

Under the rug

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