Dirt-clod

Perfectly content
Is a feeling
I am not sure
I will ever experience.

I am disgusted
Yet delighted by the absolute,
Anxiety-inducing
Brevity of this clumsy gasp
Of oxygen through the hole
My clay has freed
And again will stop,
This sour,
Begrudgingly brilliant
Dirt-clod existence.

I am grounded,
Earthly,
Frustratingly finite.

I am of matter,
Yet I do not.

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