Through the Door

We live in the crook of fortune’s flexible arm, an arm that winds up at a predetermined and rigid hand.  We live both sides, both ways, each a tiger, surveying from ripples wound about the tightened stake of natural selection.

We’d love a look at the other side without going through, a rare and much sought-after mystical optometry, but it’s better not knowing.

We live as long as our hearts pump blood and not a minute longer.  Science reclaims us when the coast is clear, our little magic motor shot.

Then we exit through the door, move down a new path, maybe without a top or bottom, maybe without sides and in-betweens.  There are no maps or manuals, though we have spent our lives hearing about the place.

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