All Heart

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.

Doors may or may not open.  We’d relish a look at the other side without going through, a rare and much sought-after mystical optometry.

We live as long as our hearts pump blood and not a minute longer.  Science reclaims us when the coast is clear, no movements in the way, no thoughts interrupting, our graceful little motor shot.

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

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