maybe infinity finds it impossible
to take root here
torn between shifting tides
and so much mud —
how every attempt
at a perfect circle falters
and bleeds off
the page
or runs one color
into next blurring their
collective edges.
bounded by that twisted loop
as we inherently
find ourselves to be all ideals
collapse into mud —
and staring over rusted waves
as a summer sun slowly
sets i’m reminded
that truth elusive as night
is impossible to hold
and bleeds off
every page
which vainly strives
to pin it in place.
