sometimes it is like travelling

on a penrose staircase.

To be honest, it is so

every time.


I have been here innumerably so –

sometimes naked, sometimes in torn clothes

and sometimes in stolen ones,

but each time it has been the same.


progress is an illusion,

a whip that keeps me moving

un-mindful of where –

until i reach back here again.


I daresay it feels like home

but it does –

unwanted, unsafe, unloved, devoid

of warmth and nudity that a home entails.


for forever too, I will return

here, again and again

and it will be the same

tear and the same reason.


but, why must I?





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