Sometimes, I write poems.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Can I tell you the problem I have with concentricity?
No matter how far inward you go, it's still another circle.
When I think of what we are, and have been, and will be
I envision a terminus. A focus. A drain, even.
Where we stop spinning, being separate. Orbiting
endlessly, the other in sight, but no closer.
I guess I just believe in this other thing. My spiral.
c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009
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