words that taste like you

It is, ever so possibly,
against all improbability
and protestations of innocence,
a slightly known fact that I am
of the contradictory persuasion.
A single mother, single mind,
so wrapped up in the future eventuality
of the moment she begins to ask questions.
For: they breed further,
rabbits in a warren
carved from hard dry earth,
questions sparking questions and
an explosion of uncertainty,
ready to wrap you in the safety of infinite possibility.
There’s always the chance tomorrow could be better,
be more, become more than what you thought it could be,
once.

And If it is not more than you thought,
maybe it is more of something other
than that which you can conceive currently.
Maybe, the day had silent inflection upon
the entire time scale
of not only your existence,
but in a manner similar to dominoes
knocks across to those around you,
none the wiser.

Your disappointment in the shortcomings of the day
may serve to inspire your mind,
and prompt more action tomorrow or later.

Then again,
later is always later and not now.
Later allows for procrastination
and wallowing and wishing and
consuming your productive hours
until you are exhausted
with the sheer effort
of nothingness.

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