There are moments in life that define us:
the stomach-retching nervosa
all consuming;
the jitters impeding breathe,
quickening pulse,
inducing wave upon wave
of frantic, insidious
heat.
It’s not the process that fuels this,
it’s the prospect of results:
the garden path built upon dreams—
this moment,
the potential first stone.
But if all goes to hell
and the deck roils beneath,
then the taste of such hope
is what we must keep.
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