Middle Hearts

We are late
to these threadbare lives.


our sleeves are rolled and ready
to rake the leaves,
revealing a road
that stretches onward,
past the middle,
and into the unknown.

But what of the wasted tries?

Failed attempts to rise
above the rest,
above the boundaries
that confine
our best


to such limited and narrow
paths in this predetermined


will teach us how
to choose more wisely,
and with far less


But, absent the leaves,
neatly raked and piled,
too wet to be borne
by the breeze,
our slick shoe-leathers
can finally get traction,

as the sun sets
on our middle-hearts,
while the beginning
is far
behind us
and lost to blackness
of the past’s


©️ Obol, 2020.

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