Posted on

On the Fridge.

All that is provided
by deaths and lives
amounts to environment
and instinct:

they are influences,
not one’s definition.
Reality’s spectrum,
not your favorite color.

One is not a mere product
of one’s context, after all,
but what one
fashions in the face

of its marriage
with the web
in which we embed
ourselves:

we call it destiny,
fate. We are smeared,
trailing, frantic paths
of crayon, liberated,
personally determined,
individually willed

in a manner
entirely unhindered
by the provided lines

and displayed
for your small
world to see.

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