Stillborn solitude

I walk around with swollen lips,
and a belly of prosen bloat,
 of hand on hip,
pregnant with words,
that won’t go past my throat.

There’s no place for us,
in this swell of anguish,
a deprivation from joy is the norm,
but amidst this hollow,
and sanctioned banish,
awaits in the lure,
a hurricane of firey word-storm.

Silence and solitude,
quell and quietude,
are always the prerequisite to the writ,
poise and fortitude,
Zen-like attitude,
to deliver not the fruit,
but the pit.


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