May be

A door

opens

paves the

way.

Feet move

gingerly

forward.

Unsure

of

the direction.

As they

reach

the door still

a conversation begins -

Why is it so hard to cross?

A monologue

rises

along side

the hope.

A whisper -

You can still

make this

work.

As the

perpetual motion

of thought

oscillates,

in that uncertain

moment,

the moment

moves on -

as it always does.

Leaves

the hope

with the hope

and advice -

Do not

imitate

me.

Many moments

later

the moment

returns

to find

the advice

unheeded.

As

the feet

navigates

the wild wet

muddy

uncertain place.

Only

voice

left around

at the door still

is the last gasp -

May be.

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