London Poem: Day 144

8 January

I speak,
Knowing that it is unlikely
To come out right.
Words fill my mouth,
Widening, but as I push
Them forth everything
Changes, and their lush
Billowing shape falls sharp.
I never mean for what happens,
To happen. There is only knowing
And accepting, but still
I cling to my mistake,
Taking a step back and recreating
Only to forget that what was
Is long over, and it is
Moving on that should
Only matter.
But, too often we lose
What matters in reactions.

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In flux

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