Trampled by neglect, our paths shall be chosen for us. By what design might we slip this trap? And whose choice? Anything greater than chance? We see patterns that are not there – all the time
Nix the rumination
Rebellion may be quiet, foxlike. One step past the familiar blows a ripple against other souls and imparts a twinge
Teeter, direction unclear. The compass sometimes lies, but at whose command? In stillness the heart yet beats