the sheet of paper
was miserable
had given up on any
of the small pleasures
it had once derived

it dreamt
each night as it lay
upon its desk
fallen asleep after
hours of mind numbing work
of the days it sat
carefree in the binding
with its siblings
ink stained odes to
wildflowers and depression
a life of purpose
sentience could never
manage to provide

it began to take
the long way back
from lunch
fluttering past
the quiet little park
hoping to see
the fool pining away

it felt unbearable
the constant rigmorale
but it didn’t know
how else to proceed
drifting past the park
pretending not to
search for home