Like a blunted, scraggly quill,
my soul inks its dreams along volumes
of shoulda- coulda- and woulda beens.
Dreaming is a trick of night,
as though the possibility does indeed exist
of bigger and better things.
Mornings, for what they're worth,
are brighter and brighter still.
Another day, another chance--
like a gambler sick with game.
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