In The Middle Of The Busy Hour

there is always a space
between all
these pressures

an opening
a vent
where you rise up
and breathe

you love air
but you miss the vacuum
where you fit
and satisfy your lust for
verisimilitude

no word
no words

in here we do things
without words

breathe: exhale inhale
live life

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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