And the question arises-
are the days I lives the body,
yesterday, and today, and the days I never see...
am I the hands that exist, yet not-
as I run around in circles,
returning to the beginning,
again and again and again.
Never is it that I always despise this predicament,
for the moment when thoes eyes met mine,
this frugal being of me was brimming in joy,
yet, the day those closed- hiding the deep black behind,
my self was consumed by rage and endless detest, armed up in nothing to fight heavens and the dust.
But then I pause- arms weak by my side..
“I am tired. This is unfair”
But is it truly unfair?
The lips that smiled in gratitude once,
is to taste the salt of her tear,
as the circle of life turns- balanced and unjustly fair,
while I too run this circle of mine,
round and round and round,
alongside the clock without its hands.