At some point, you signed a contract

At some point, you signed a contract
That stated you would abide by these laws
of physicality and spatiotemporality.
You agreed to go along with the consensus
who all agreed upon this kind of history.
You don’t remember what the
terms and conditions were, though,
For not abiding by these laws.
Some days it seems so easy
just to slip away from the sheath of skin
and begin again inside a ray of light.
Other days you swear you must carry
more burdens upon more burdens.
You’ve found a cocoon embedded deep inside of you.
Each day brings faces to your door that you must scrutinize.
You’re like a tortoise with just enough curiosity
to keep you from remaining in permanent retreat.
You aren’t completely convinced that there isn’t a tunnel
past the abyss beneath the ledge of the rear of the cocoon
That would take you through a kind of hell, the blackest of nights,
But resolve itself cleanly and clearly in a heaven of infinite light.

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