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It is as though childhood
wears down our feet,
steadily, but unevenly,
or dims one eye
just a bit more than the other

not enough that we notice,
but enough so we lean,
slightly, off center
never quite moving straight
always favoring the stunted side

so life becomes
a series of circles
most, small enough
to create a kind of
comforting consistency

some so subtle
they escape detection
except for a vague sense
in our guts
of something repeating

something unnamable,
elusive, unsettling,
that should not be present
if we are moving forward
like we tell ourselves we are.


5 Responses

  1. Very cool poem, Sig!

  2. Gut-wrenching, mystical poem beautifully and frighteningly true.

  3. Interesting thought.

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