The Circle

Like the ice off the earth
In spring,
Like a lie in the presence
Of truth,
Like dry ink off an old
I can feel melting off me
My face,
And my heart I can sense
Every wrinkle and tear,
Every smile,
With whose help it would
Speak to the world,
And who’d pass to it
The world’s reply
As I watch my hands wither
Like leaves,
That I’d gather in bouquets
Each fall,
I recall what a joy it once was
To hold
Rock and snow, and the sunset glow
Over the ocean
As if sculpted from
Alien ash,
My legs, too, crumble
With the wall of time,
And the winter wind
Carries away
All that’s always been his –
Never mine

4 thoughts on “The Circle

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