Turning point

It’s as though I’m at the vertex
of an upward-reaching loop
in fate’s cursive scrawl, could
fall backward or forward, things
could go either way, and still
I cannot close my eyes.

My momentum is all in
my potential, the worth of my patience
at the mercy of the unknown, to be determined
by the slight breeze I sense building
in the distance. Control
is an old friend turned stranger.

Words like “maybe”
and “someday” fall upon my ears
like the hopeful hum of rain
but taste sharp and fearful,
a warning I do not know
how to heed.



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