on not knowing. a poem.

it’s in the not knowing that the heart

wrestles with pain on one side and

joy on the other. not knowing whether

to write or not to write,

to build or not to build

to preach to the captives or to stay

silent. are the birds

full of such angst as they gather

before their great migrations? do they wrestle, too,

with the rumored warmth of the future

and the regrets they leave behind?

or do they just spread their winds and say

the hell with it all. i’m outta here.


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