He rages over the obstacles

the minutiae/and

he deconstructs each moment, the very pause of his blood

a tempest. He is bettered

by the millstones, he howls, the random

curves of an imperfect life. But every moment is forward, not

back; each breath inhaled, undigested, each word a

scar, or a trophy. He stands before the altar of

uncertainness, cursing the impulsive wind and

he walks in the clean rain. This is to be.

17 thoughts on “Uncertainness

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