Forced action.

A poem about being forced to act with imperfect information.

You write, and you write.
Still, the haze surrounds,
constricting light.
No escape, no daring solution in sight.
But hell, you’re forced to play,
lending existence to a voice.
Making moves that smash breathing room into view.
And now, you’re given no choice,
for there, baring through,
in the fog,
the next action’s due.