Circle

I keep trying
to cut open
the circle
so desperately,
walking around
and around,
hoping that
hidden deep
in a boundless
eternity
an end can
be found.

An end can
be found.

Yesterday I laughed myself out of a poem.
Today, I simply lost one. I find it ironic.

And I wonder
at the sunset,
the way the waning rays
offer up their colors
to the sky so
romantically, much
as a young boy
offers oil
pastels to his crush
in the month
of February.

Intention followed
by a splotchy, almost planned
beauty.

And I think
if his crush is the
sky then the earth
must be his jealous
classmate who never had
the balls to speak up.

Destined to admire the
sky from afar, as so much
of it’s soul is timid
or apathetic, though
it has always loved
the sky, it just
never said it.

Though I heard
a homeless woman
singing the other day,
singing sweeter than
the cold wind and
louder than her
shaking sway.

She loved the sun
loving the sky, and
though inhabiting an
earth that never spoke
up, she stopped asking
why. She found singing
preferable to cries.

Yesterday I talked myself out of love.
Today, I am lost in it. And I find it ironic

that I keep
walking around
and around,
trying to
cut open
the circle so
desperately,
hoping maybe
an end can
be found,
hidden deep
in a boundless
eternity.

A boundless
eternity.

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