Lent — day twenty

You will screw up. To think otherwise
is to believe a lie, fed everyday by the
marvelous, twitching steps you take
in what you hope is the right direction.
Never mind that you haven’t breathed
in a while. You walk with every muscle
taut as the rope you teeter across
in inches. One wrong twitch and
you tumble, free. And all will point,
collect their winnings from the bets
they took on you. Never mind that you
forgot where you’re going. Never mind
you forgot your own name. You’ll make it,
with utmost grace, to the end – and your scoffers,
will praise you with shame hung heads.
Never mind if you fell, you would finally fly,
like you do each night when you dream.
Never mind that your scoffers are all
taking bets on how beautiful your wings
will be.

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