Restless
It is that perennial immateriality dwelling between living and dying
Crouched in the corners and grappling by the hinges
Only to remain unseen;
We weave our web of what we believe we understand
Of the relationship of our acts and events
Only to remain misunderstood;
From that odd wisp of steam of heated discussions
To the urgent hiss of a new page calling;
I teeter on that thin ice
That single space of uncertainty
And I ask
“What am I doing here?”.
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