The Circle’s Cycle

I spin in an endless loop,

a storm too loud to quiet.

Tornado of a life,

memories scattered like leaves.

I shuffle forward,

leaving fragments behind.

______

“New year, new dawn,” they said.

“Let the past die; forge ahead.”

But the past lingers,

its ghosts sitting at my table.

The ones I clung to through the storm

have slipped into the shadows.

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Still, I move—

spinning, repeating,

this endless rhythm of holding on

and letting go, cutting deep within me.

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The thought cuts deep:

I too may fade,

become the past

that others left behind.

______

We march, we spin,

repeating cycles, old as sin.

The thought stings but we will join the past,

just as those beside us fall at last.

_____

In this jungle of life,

we are all prey—

to time, to each other.

Like the animals we consume,

we too are consumed.

Brimmed with glory,

yet fleeting as the wind.

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And still, we bind ourselves to history,

threads of those who came before

woven into our being.

Even as we rot,

as we fall,

the circle persists.

_____

Perhaps this endless spinning

isn’t to nowhere’s end—

but perhaps a beginning,

a rebound that draws us back

to bloom again.

_______

But for now,

it feels like we are going nowhere.

With every soul we lay six feet down there.