Vestibule

Both in front of

And behind me

Are doors.

One would take me

Back to where I have been.

The other would take me

To the unknown.

I stand precariously

In the middle

With nobody watching

To see which path

I end up taking.

Sometimes I wish

Someone would take charge

Order me to move

Even just for the argument

That would surely ensue

From telling me what to do.

Sometimes I wish there were

More doors.

Why are our choices only the past

Or the future?

Why can there not be many other

Variances?

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