Between The Hand And The Thread Poem by ashok jadhav

I wake each day believing I am free,
Yet feel a pull beneath my smallest acts.
The choices form like doors along my path,
Each open, each already worn with use.
I step through one and call the motion mine,
Though something in the hinge resists my claim.
If fate exists, it does not shout commands;
It murmurs through the habits of the blood,
Through fears I learned before I learned their names,
Through loves that rise unasked and rule the heart.
Still, in the pause before the final step,
I sense a space no force can fully bind.
Perhaps we live where both these powers meet—
Not masters, not mere prisoners of time.
The thread may mark the limits of the weave,
But still the hand decides the final shape.