A fine and lasting
conflict between
my fixed-fate stars and
my taste for free will
is all I have
to work out with
when it comes to making
a muscle of my soul.

Try to flex
as much as I can
between letting go
and digging in,
hoping that
when I’m forced
at last to choose,
any choice
will be easy.

A hot knot
in my core, then,
is my indicator
that I’ve been putting in
work.  Stepping
where the struggle
is taken in with
the oxygen.
Crunching
past pain
to get myself
lean; sometimes left
wanting, other times
full up to the brim.