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Stuck in Utkatasana: Prose for a Pose Series


It’s that time of day again

While the clock ticks away like an ill fated metronome, callus ions coil

within my head

Their electrical impulses are stagnant...An energy now dulled by the system

My brain, so convoluted and gray, beats to the most truncated of tempos... 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1!

It becomes a disease of ours

It’s that time of day again

Protruding, adding character, although futile

Exists as a portal, as a perception–and so I do

I run backwards next, deteriorated and delayed

Deteriorated and delayed, leaving empty pockets of noise

It’s that time of day again

What we do to make it feel alright

And want

And indulge