Upheaval of monotony, the kind
That makes our eyes clasp shut, or if agape,
The tendons strained against the turbulence
Of being. Hands embrace insipid air.
Still in this posture held, this oneness felt,
We look more fully toward where we've drifted,
Where through the currents of community
Our persons stayed or silently absconded.
Where might we be if our plot had turned a bend,
A different life donned on the empty shell
Of our personalities? Would we be here,
The cold air of October bitterly
Misting our faces, feet turned pale and numb?
What piece or point of us is truly ours?
What if we wrapped the soft down of home and care
Of family around us permanently,
Or in destitution, no home to draw
Us from the abyss of depair, the edge of light,
Who would we be in that particular place?
Does fate abound, the individual leave,
The mind then useless in the cave of the skull?
When do we get to choose the player played
On our blank body, and when must we resign
Ourselves to circumstance and other's whims?
Where are we in the din that shapes our breath?
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