Cycles

present falls
as feet meets floor
eyes seeing naked—
the past in a mirror
cracks
running on the fragile glass
reflections break,
vanishing fast;

worlds rebuilt
from ruins
of the same rocks
every morning
light, dark,
space and mass
silence, noise
thoughts and touch;

clouds afloat
heavy with memory
ready to pour
waters from old,
used and pure
like the rush
of a wheel that keeps turning
unable to stop;
nothing has changed.

Where to heal, when to hurt?
Where is death, when’s rebirth?

Turn, turn, and find the way;
Know the lines, and join the play!

The meanings don’t make sense
And what make sense are meaningless.
Go on, till we see an end;
Till the curtains start to swing open.

Evelyn Dumag-Gabinete


This is the #potd poem of the day.

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