I am an empty page,
A crumpled, used up leaf,
Of a calendar gone stale.
I am an empty tin
Can of half-eaten, half-eschewed,
Mash of unrecognizable bits,
Described on the label
As the equivalent of a day’s worth
Of calories and additives.
After the days,
After the hours,
After the moments spent
In a blissful suspended-animation-like state
Of a time snatched from the cruelties of what is real,
And allowed for a while
To wallow in the indulgences of a parallel world,
I am back,
Confronted
By that basic me,
The empty tin can ,
The empty page.
I am once more
An empty page,
An empty tin
Can of nothingness,
Awaiting replenishment.
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