The nebulous atmosphere sifts through a black hole/ dissipates escapes without a glance/ nod/ or an adjustment to the cause of humanity no one cares about it/ no one notices it no change in pressure exists/ upon the lighting of day nor the pending dark/ of night. I thumb through pages of past mentions and accolades/ unencumbered by the chatter and wince at the sight of myself in the mirror— what has become of me? what has become of me? meaning—what has become of me in the sense that I look unsteady/ unsure not in the sense of dishevelment that’s a given I care less for— in fact/ proud of it’s less relevant than the scattered thoughts and projects littering this floor collecting dust/ it’s nebulous.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Fantastic the woven words and interactions within this immersive poem!
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Beautiful. I love the feel of this one.
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Cool. Thanks Tara!
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It’s nebulous, indeed. Nicely said.
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