The Wish

I found this old draft that I’d never published so here it is now, reblogged.

Postcard from a Pigeon

I wish I wasn’t where I am,

because to be there means I know
what I’ve always denied,
that there’s a thought inside me
that fights to get outside.
I don’t recall writing this
but memory’s such a tragedy,
a wretched thought,
of forlorn and unhappy incidents,
best forgotten.

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