how does it end?
who really wants to know?
it’ll only destroy pathways where we push, pull, and grow
flip to the last page?
no idea why
purpose, a repeated ritual sky
what do we seek while meandering our way to a maintained middle
there is no finale, finally
no diner scenes
no loved characters dying in back alleys
no dimming of lights
choppers heading east, there’s more pain waiting at home
nothing to achieve
more cards up my sleeve
milestones, markers, bar mitzvah, nuts dropping, transformative moments to those who notice
i write without guard rails
i write to tell our tales
i write to disguise us as one another
i write to separate pain in the egg where we developed and begged, to begin again
without an end
this can’t be it
i’m still here
holding onto a number
waiting in line
One thought on “from a stool, i observed a stream and kept seeing the same thing”
365 is just a number – wonder what you will think tomorrow?
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