Move On

Mettle’s what you want, not some shrill cry in the misty dark.
Or maybe it’s in the moment after, but before they dry,
Something cuts its butter-knife through the folds of sense and time.

It’s open.

Not a wound, but a window.
A look inward and forward.
Opportunity knocks with unsheathed claws or hints of whispers, but ever so rarely with knuckles.
Knuckles you have more chance to capture.
They’re slower, louder, blunter.

That “life’s for living” must be true,
Though truism trapped many
you korinthenkacker, puffed and huffing.
It’s simple, nonsensical – but so obstinately content.
And doesn’t that feed the fire, or would you have it too?
That cool drink. That hydrates the roots.
That gives you breath and room.

But think “I can,” not “it won’t,” and you’ll see what to do.

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