We mimic life.
Like opposites that never meet
we circle endlessly,

Distilled
into a misty reality
we’re borne by the wind of whim
and possibility,

Hats without heads,
searching for a purpose,
knowing without the storm we’d fall
into a heap on the ground,

useless
except for making lists.
We can not own what we carry
on our backs, only what’s
inside us.

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