Walking on Pillows

As walking on pillows-
on damp pillows-
on damp, carpeted pillows
of emerald and gold leaf,
and red velvet cake;

Each step I take unboldly.
I wince and apologize
for the compression,
impressions that materialize
with every step.

With each step my foot tries
to step gently,
step respectfully,
but the lightest step feigned
isn’t feather enough;

And it’s a tough terrain,
like lumbering through those
piles of drifted snow,
searching for new,
simpler ways to go.

Exhausted, slow, subdued,
and not half-way across it,
I stop and nestle down
upon an ottoman-unorthodox.
My tired body sinks.

I think a paradox:
This waterbed, so tiring to traverse,
but so relaxing to lounge.
I beg pardon to the pillow deflating;
weighted by my rest.

In duress I straighten
and rise from the sponge, continuing on
toward the far sedgy edge
where the green walls rise and billow
to intimidate.

Stumbling late through pillows
of emerald and gold leaf, and
moist red velvet cake;
I wince with every tired step,
for dents that I make.

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