We always walk in circles.
An illusion of return,
of homecoming or homesickness
wells up a broken circle
to cover the
cunning of annihilation
disguised by circulation
of blood and respiration.
We always walk in circles.
Imagine absent Suns
and wish ourselves
satellites,
beings practicing
cosmic liturgy.
Love is the radiant
dream of radii
to mend broken
circles within.
2 comments:
How fitting you should have written this on our Teddy's day of demise.
Wrongo! I wrote it on Tuesday, not Wednesday!
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