Your song of circles
Wasn’t for me
Though I dove through the depths of the rings you painted,
(For a moment)
That the rhythm of your hieroglyphics
Was a moment that matched the muse
In the breast of my calculus palm.
I seldom saw your spirals sing;
Through the flux of my own recollections
Though the trees in your forest could move,
(That I’m sure),
Or meticulously crafted melody,
To the spaces that words didn’t write in.
They couldn’t shift fallen leaves with airs;
And lines too,
Couldn’t paint the picture
And manufacture any fixture
To the whims of my rhythms.
Make something out of all that is senseless