Neither intention nor commission, but the act remains.
The deed is done.
And here we are with what remains.
Not quite hell, yet paved with good intentions.
Bought the advert, not the dish delivered.
Yet you play with the toys you have.
Else struggle with the games of others.
In imitation we salute; but maybe just the finger.
In frustration it will break.
Holding back fuels the void.
A measure of what can be.
Potential, but do we measure up?
Is it ours, or just pretending?
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