I Woke Unto A Blessed Desolation

i am seated. i am seated on a chair behind a desk. we are not in an office. we are not in a house. we are in a field. the chair, the desk – they are made of wood. i am not. the field, it is made of dirt. dirt in every direction. nothing but dirt until dirt meets the sky. the sky is a canopy. the canopy is empty.

the canopy is empty. the field is empty. the desk is not empty. there are pages on the desk. pages and a black ink pen. the pen is in my hand. my hand is on the pages. the pages are not empty. there is writing on the pages. the writing is black ink.

i am seated. i do not speak. i do not sigh. i am not empty. i remember things. my hand adjusts the pen. words appear. a wind unfurls. the wind is strong. the wind takes the pages. the pages take the ink. the ink, it takes my past. i do not turn to watch it go. i do not speak. i do not sigh. i bury the pen.

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