The researcher

Dissected into a million pieces:

every thought that runs through my head,

every start that’s every ended

and every path no matter where it has led.

All broken down into slivers

to stare at for hours,

looked at under a microscope

one hundred times magnified, then at higher powers.

And all for what?

To calm my nerves and ease my mind?

To ensure good choices but why?

Things can’t be changed, only left behind.

I worry over the past

and over all the decisions left to make.

I drive myself insane

and argue for argument’s sake.

These are the facts.

They can’t be rearranged.

No matter how close I inspect them

I must leave them, unchanged.


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