Are beginnings ever new? Or do they merely hide disguised recycled rite of passage? Can we ever start afresh? And. I so. Would that not demand a death? A stab in the back of an old expectation, Or a dream, or a love. And where would that be buried? In the graveyard of a heart eroded by regret and loss, Forced to take the shovel blow as space is crudely cut. But is it not that selfsame heart the birthplace of beginnings? A sacrosanct and sacred womb to an embryo of imagination. And then. And then. And then, you ask; Is that not the pulse of possibility. Have the haploid haves of ‘why’ and ‘not’ fused and formed The fragile hint of some zygotic you? And do you choose to hold that heart both scarred and scared Tighter to your truth? And would you set yourself apart in silent vigil To the embryonic evolution of this guarded growth? And watch in wonder as the; “why” is whispered? Would you silence that rhetoric rambling and merely move a little? To wait in wonder for the birth pangs of the new.

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