I am neither
infallible, nor
inflexible, and
this constant clearing of air
seems to fall to me.

It is like hitting
narrative beats:
my progress feels inevitable,
as I am swept along in
the current of a story
from another's pen.

I tumble along,
unknown to the narrator,
unseen by the readers.
I present blandly one-sided in this light,
my most thriving facets hidden
by murky ignorance,

All I get is yet another
false moon, but still
my dusty wings spread,
and I take off on the same old
futile flight, my tired trajectory
predetermined by weariness.

Redemption could lie in a previous draft,
scribbled in the margins,
if not between the lines.
A concession edited out for concision.

10/22/2026

Author's Note: This does not feel entirely like I wrote it, but it does feel entirely like I feel it, so...

Posted on 10/22/2026
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