There are times,
   I think 
       I'm on my way.
             I'm picking up            
                   bread     c       u   m       s
                                  r            b
                             left on my
                                  trail.

Then,
   I trip,
         slip ... and slide ... somewhere

                   d
                     o
                      w
                        n 
                            a rabbit hole--
                                   look out Alice,
                                    I can't seem
                                          to
                                       STOP
                                       myself.

My fingers
         clutch at straws,
              and grasp the clinging vine--
                                             and I jerk
                                  myself 
                                           back to now.


I stand up              
        straight,
                 s~h~a~k~e   myself off,
              and amid clouds
                     of dust,
                one step,
            two...
       I ramble on
           again.
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