On choices, our lives are built
made in the heat of a night
the turn of a wheel, the glance of an eye
the feeling in a heart, the action of another
the click of a key, or stroke of a pen.
Some random, some spontaneous,
others thoughtful, others from voices
that push and pull—some so loud,
they stray your own to think it's creed,
some so subtle, left unnoticed.
It's easy to live a life thought endless,
when tomorrow lives just nearby.
It's easy to drift, like a bottle cast to sea,
not in a perceived box that is trying to define thee.
It's harder to wander an unconventional path
full of purpose, wonder, and direction,
being open like books and doors,
whether seen or unseen by others.
It's hope that plants seeds
and tends the weeds
in the moments between the rises
that makes a life, where choice is there
—even when concealed by mildew,
hidden from view. Walk through.
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