poetry

limits of dare

This disregarded fan spins madly above my head, wobbling in space, looking as though it might fall from its heavens in exhaustion at any moment, yet it never does.

Instead, it perseveres, dutifully spinning on it wobbling voyage to nowhere, without questioning why, or if, it should continue. It just keeps spinning, furtively, presumably out of habit, or for an elusive sense of worth, because that is the limit of its experience, because that it the limit of its dare.

Having accepted a purposed shape, a definition, its limits of possibility have also been defined, as it spins, continually, into its oblivion of infinity.

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Eric

I've come to write.

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