opens his eyes to the morning sky
as if it is a tightrope
his first thought is always to cut the rope
but somewhere inside himself he finds
a shred of will
a drop of endurance
and a speck of bother
the fall comes soon enough
no need to rush it
he starts a pot like he's opening his umbrella
he stretches his arms into the day
takes one step at a time
one cup in front of the other
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