Free Verse Poetry

I stand, dead center

in a heavy room
staring, no — fixated
on a single white wall

I yearn for the thing:
the moment that remakes me.
But my frantic eyes
can only grope each stroke
of white paint.
I cannot find it.

All I see is one long, muted stare.
And the walls refuse to close in.

I merely am not.

I am only eyes
darting across a white nothingness;
blinded to oblivion.

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