Poetry

That May Be, 16 (137.)

There are things
that will never be known,
and fights that will never be thrown
because they won’t even begin.
Time is funny like that,
combined with indecision
to create regrets that sit heavy on the strongest chests.
When is emotion the opposite of motion?
To feel, and not move,
is this the greatest sin?
To think, and not speak,
is this apathy’s peak?
So many wonders will never be,
they won’t have a chance to cease
or increase, or release,
or to inspire a damn thing
because they sat so long
in a heart or a brain
that they became engulfed by the person in question.
We contain multitudes of potential,
whole damn worlds
rotating inside our skulls,
yet we can just
do nothing
while they wither to dust.
Not even the wind may take them
from these impenetrable bone prisons.
Here’s to the next idea
that passes lips –
may its force of genius
part hips and move ships.

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