By Thomas Page

I can’t seem to truly relax

Like sink deeply into an armchair and ponder tea cookies relaxed

Because of the access I have to everything I have to do

Like a white rabbit burdened with a pocket watch

Always late for something and early for nothing

The muscles in my neck

Tenses like game grabbed by the hunter

In a cacophony of hounds

Flooding a tunnel in the dirt.

Something always due like a castlebound arrow

Making the archer curse hamartia

And pull another from the quiver

With the same urgency as a wall falling

In some defeated’s future

That no matter what the wall has fallen down

Awash in the tide of a now-new-named sea

Which seemed tranquil as neptuned head

Before breaching a stormy sea

To part it for a moment

And fly like the albatross above a pacific body

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