Trapped behind the glass of my
own making, a personal prison
of neurons and synapses which
impale me to this point, to
this spot where I sit,

I stare out of the shuttered window,
hoping for a glimpse of some-
thing…I don’t know what I’m
looking for or what I even
expect to see here

But I’m immovable. Bogged down
in fantasies I’m not certain
I want to come to pass. Bogged
down, rather, by probabilities-
what could happen if…

A life was never lived in maybies.

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