Roundabout
No longer do I consider
the span of a life
as a length of knotted string,
nor a road, path, or journey.
We pick up and pocket
pieces of a jigsaw
sensing a pattern and purpose,
only to discover
that they are remnants
of a painted carousel,
that no longer fits
this day or the next.
Fragments found and lost,
revolve still
in the mind's history book
as tales scribed
in the random script
of passing clouds.
Some may fancy
they can decipher
meaning and direction
on those ever-changing pages,
a storyline perhaps,
one akin to a length of knotted string,
but none can untie that string
for it neither ends, nor does it begin.
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