Cut out

When did my life become like folded paper, an unreliable bridge leading only to
cardboard cul-de-sac and misplaced lighthouse

It feels so flimsy and rough-cut, a random
throw-it-up-in-the-air to see where it lands
sort of arrangement I never planned.

And the other people are too few, too distant,
like none of us deserve to be more than a blur,
ready to be mown down or cut out altogether