And/Or

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I’m afraid of forever
that impossibly distant roar of time,
the call to vacancy: everything
must pass . . .
And the tremors feel more real to me
than my (passing familiarity with)
contentment (i.e. hello. –or perhaps
in a miraculous twist, a more familiar
admonishment to stay . . . )
In either image
(every choice, a refraction of a simple
trick of light–) we struggle on to
the very end and/or subsequent
beginning.
(–As the vibrant undulations of the soul
reach out, back to the starlight
that made them.)
Like cascading water that foams into
a mist, the future both rises
and falls away . . .
 
 

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