Maybe…

My life is like a wisp
curling up and out
dancing for a moment
with the air around it
and then…
gone.

But when my fingers
are arranging pixels
and the coffee
sits, hot and strong
butt in chair
solid.

How can this be.

Such potential for non-existence
fleeting is the best I can hope for?

Maybe I am wrong about life

To hold on so tightly

What else do I hold on tightly to?

Is life the same as those things
and how does it work out
when I do hold on to other things?

For fuck’s sake…and love…

Maybe I am wrong.

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Elan Mudrow

Smidgens

Bitter Gertrude

Blogging about Theatre and Culture since 2013

Engage!

Critical Dharma for Thinking Minds

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

Josep Goded

Seeking Truth

LYNCH

:to put to death (as by hanging) by mob action without legal approval or permission

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