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 ageThat 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?