For 12 months we tried to fight the cloth tied over our face
Begging to be free, pleading for control back of our spaces
When the days brought flowers again, the hope rose
The belief was that normalcy would return
We untied, dismantled, and tore off our masks
Jubilated to feel free of this grasp
Instead, what was found was both desolate and perplexing
Normal had nowhere to go
Except back into our purposeless pit
The place that held who we believed we were and wanted to be
Normal began to feel more like a fraud than a foundation
Yes, our breathe could flow in and out of our inlet
But still felt imprisoned in our cavity, so tight
Relationship was rigid and stiff
Both with ourselves and fellow peers
Our feelings and tempers rioting inside
Blurting out our inadequacies far and wide
After 2 short moons
It was recommended to tie that cloth back to our faces
Which we did in most places
A feeling of ease at this cumbersome taskTo keep the monster behind our mask
If you ever find yourself outside of a used bookstore, do not pass go. Open the door and happen upon stories, treasure maps, keys to other worlds, and maybe an old cat named Frank wandering the corridors. You’ll know it’s the right place based on the unorganized shelves and grungy carpet, the smell of dust, life, and letters will whirl under your nostrils. That same dust will hang limply in the air under the stream of sunlight in the stained windows. You will be picked, called out and born here. As you walk silently down each aisle, you won’t really need to read the title. And if you do, do it at the end. If you let yourself feel it, your soul will tell you. Drift a finger over the hump of each spine, each worn and scarred body, and when it says stop, Listen. Grasp it gently, and no matter what, smell it first. The old ones always call to me most. So many hands where mine lies now, so many shelves, tables, and beds it laid on before resting here. There are so many lives it saw, w...
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