Branching Into Different Lives

I do not live an extreme live,

I live one of normality, nonchalance,

I don’t even think I’m capable of hate,

It is an emotion,

I do not

Possess the will for

Hope, however, does not require will

It is a natural thing, perhaps

To sustain our delicate minds

But not this this agonising feeling,

It won’t go away,

I’m thinking never

I grief and grief and grief,

Over a future not yet written,

Although possibly decided,

Yes, the branch seems clear

What branch, you might ask?

The tree of time has them, don’t you know,

Giving the illusion of a free mind, its many, many branches

Some branches are very short

A consequence, one might observe, of many crossings,

none remaining

And at the end, its shortest and most delicate,

An illusion created by its hopeful, thick beginning,

So it doesn't break, it creates anew, anew, anew,

Until we reach the stars,

Or earth will swallow us whole,

It is us, my dear, our branch.