tastes like raspberries

I stretch myself
like a bridge between
fantasy and reality
with not enough
of me on either side.
I am too close to
both edges.

Everything I build
is made of glass.

I look around me
afraid to move or
touch, unsure of
what may break.

We are creators to our core

and necessary
to creation
is destruction.

I suppose the
only question
is timing.

In the evenings
I watch through
the window as the
night creatures fly
obsessively to the light
that will bring their doom

and I wonder
what it would be like
to live without obsessions.

They say the
Milky Way
tastes
like
raspberries
I mumble as I
pull one from our
backyard bush and
place it decadently
into my mouth.

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