In passing, circular realms become dust.
Faces wither to bone.
Affliction given
but in the end forgotten.
This is time's acrimony.
Casting a shadow
that wanders
but is never lost.
Endlessly expanding,
yet to reach the plateau.
With transparent presence,
somehow these silent waves echo.
To be aware of this surreal embrace
and in the same moment realize
the fractal forms one shape
of infinite parallels
waiting to converge.
A serpent's circle returns in cold blood
separating the primitive, recycling new meaning.
From womb to grave
the distance covered is chosen.
The past was never alive.
What is will never die
until this handless clock of chaos stops.