at which height?

the author of my life

a puppeteer?

a silver lining, a whispered graze

across the temple

suggesting direction.

or do I know better

than I know?

do I gently shift myself

and give grace

when that shift gets shadowed

falling unnoticed in the

magnetism of human imperfections --

the fears the doubts the egos

the heavy weights of

misinformed decisions?

or do the Puppeteer and I

exist in tandem

loving my every move as only they can?

will I ever learn to love my actions



as they do? Do I carry

with me

the capacity

of this grace

as I am in form in body?

did I gift myself this


in this time?

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