Tornados and Toilet Bowls

Concentric in my line of sight
Ripples of decisions made
and moments of defining trajectory
missed
Slicing through time
in this ephemeral machine

Fated
with inherent obsolescence
and leaving behind none but the wake
of simmering terrain
and unstable elements

In my life I have known
only circles and squares
Shapes carved into bone
and of which tell me nothing
about what lies outside
their borders

Only that once begun, all lines must connect
And out of fear of that commitment
I veer inward
causing each circle I make
to be smaller than the last

After countless horizons lost
to the dizzying nature of this coiled crusade
I see now
that the fixation on self
will only expedite my own implosion
and most importantly
that spirals
are better left to tornados
and toilet bowls

Onward
Across the silk
Across the skin
of the great creation

Like a surgeon of the cerebral spark
A blade of resolve must only cut
forward
and glide across this undulating mirror of ambivalence
like good scissors

catching a clean ride

through wrapping paper

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