Rough

And now,

rough terrain,

tripping over small stones,

that seem to have sprouted overnight,

bumping into doors,

left half opened,

chairs left dangling,

in a big room,

like a moth,

the one drawn to that light bulb,

I keep heading towards hard objects,

drawn by a need

to feel grounded perhaps,

to touch down,

to be held by earthly forces,

because sometimes,

I just want to fly away.

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