Potential
is overrated.
It’s the flip-
side of what is
possible,
the call of
tails and heads;
looking so
pendulous—
leaving you
embittered
by its dangle.
It’s the fetus
in the womb that
might have made it—
lost in a clumsy
tumble down the stairs.
It births your
feeling guilty,
for failing
to make the grade,
for bringing forth
your parents’
disappointment,
forever shrouded
in the umbra
of another.
It’s the tease of
what-can-be—
if the ducks
are all aligned
in a carnie's
game of chance;
the fifty-fifty
pluck
of she loves me,
loves me not;
the toss of
luck and sevens,
the dots of their
constellations,
overlooking pines
that scale the sky,
as if they long
to kiss the stars;
or the poem which
craves to lift itself
to reach
the crescent moon,
rest its weary
hat upon its hook.
Andreas Gripp
August 12, 2024
RF Image
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