In the Middle of Limbo

In the Middle of Limbo

What is it about cycles

that makes each dot a starting point?

What is it about arguments that make us run around in cycles?

Whose hands ever reversed the clock of life

or undid the scars

that remind us that the past is more that a collection of fables?

Whose eyes from birth to death

no tears will know?

What is so tick about cycles

that the moon, Earth, and our cells

Could do naught but imitate

and why is it said

that in this life of ours, everything runs around in cycles...?

Is the sun really that advanced in age

That nothing new seems to happen under it?
Or who has seen something that the stars of the skies haven't?
Will the moon decide to visit us one afternoon

Or must it always turn up at night when we sleep?

Whoever looked God in the eyeballs

and told a story about it

Or who has something he has not received?

Why aren’t the fingers on my hands equal

Or must there always be a rich and poor, tall and short, white and black...

are there not any lines in between?

Why does this whole piece feel so cyclical

and what is it about life that makes everything

run in cycles?